Emblem of The Siren
by FireBlossum
Summary: Genevieve,a former vocalist with a dark past,is marked for an eternity in hell. Before being sent,she crosses paths with destruction locked into a weapon famed as the Sun Amulet. As one of many sought after it,Death makes a deal with her.Endless power for a trip to the White City. Though,amid the search for balance and salvation, something may arise and,quite possibly,destroy them.
1. Prologue

The room was dark and nearly frozen. Genevieve Hanson laid half dead in the middle of the plastic covered concrete. Her neck was slit with a gash dangerously close to her jugular. She hadn't moved. Not since she fell forward due to her body losing too much blood. She lied there limp, tortured, deflowered, left powerless against her captor, whom had left her to rot in his basement for three long days. By the third day, Genevieve only had two sorts of feeling left in her body. One was the feeling of her blood drooling from her wound as it then curdled to her face, hair and clothes, loosely sticking her to the ground. The other feeling was of the rats, lightly picking at her gash. As if they were tasting her infected flesh, waiting for their next feast to finally stop breathing.

One had gotten impatient and gnawed on her left eye, blinding her on one side. Though it wasn't as if she were able to see in the first place. The room's walls were windowless and made it so eerily dark, it might has well have been a black hole in the ground. Genevieve had already felt down every crack and crevice in what felt to be a ten by eight prison and was built like a soundproof bomb shelter. She tried shouting for help, banging on the cement walls, she even tried digging out with her fingernails. All her attempts only gave her a weak throat, fractured hands, and filth packed deep under her faded gel manicure. The only thing her mangled body allowed her to do was to faintly breathe and stare at the black nothingness before her. For at that point, Genevieve's time was almost finished. Her life that she had tried desperately to clench onto was nearly drained, oozing unto the creases of the plastic. Her good eye grew heavy and thoughts coming and going. Genevieve had only one escape plan left. Her last hope was to wait. Wait for her time as well as her pain to end, for she had finally persuaded herself that she was going to die here. She would erode in this tomb until she was only dust. In a few years, no one would look for her, in a few more, no one would care to. So she waited. Eerily patient for Death to come and grant her final blissful embrace. To be gone from this room as well as this world.

Before she could grant her prison a final goodbye. A heavy thud of a door being knocked down was heard in the floor above.

"POLICE! YOU'RE UNDER ARREST!" A voice announced. There were cautious footsteps among the silence of about five or six men. The voice made himself heard again.

"Genevieve Hanson! We're here to rescue you! Can you make a noise-" Then another boom was heard that was horrifically familiar to Genevieve.

"FUCK YOU ASSHOLES! SHE'S MINE!" The boom shook the house again. It was a blast from the twelve-gauge shotgun that belonged to the man keeping her in his basement. She recalled how he would joyously press it to her skull in the countless times he raped her. The grim image in her mind was snuffed out when loud popping upstairs erupted. Another thud collapsed onto the ceiling. The footsteps of the officers spread throughout the rooms. Moving to the section her door was located. The final boom shook the Earth once more, dim brightness flooded over the darkness that made the rats scatter away from the door shaped light casting the human shadow in the center. The officer mutters under his breath as he stared into Genevieve's mangled face as she expressionlessly stared into his.

"Oh God..."

The beeping from the heart monitor beat an unsteady rhythm in the speeding ambulance. Paramedics desperately tried to keep the unsymmetrical pumping alive in Genevieve's heart. They tried their hardest to clean her infected neck and getting blood back into her near dried veins. All was to no avail. Genevieve was going under and everyone in the screeching vehicle knew it, including her. Her heart began to pump faster. A paramedic echoed in her ears that they were loosing her but she barely heard sound. Genevieve's eyesight had gotten worse, seeing a black specter-like shape in the corner of her eye. The blur sharpened and changed to what looked like a man in a heavy, deep red cloak. He wore a metal mask that covered his nose and mouth even though his scorched mutilation outskirted the cover. Talons protruded upward from both sides of the jaw and skulls were sculpted into the middle. The mask's metal shined dim in the florescent lighting. The heart monitor raised its tempo to a more alarming rate, the paramedics scrambled to get other supplies as the masked entity stayed. The paramedics phasing through his ghostlike body. Its glowing green irises peering as Genevieve's grip weakened further. As if it were eager to watch her eyes close for the final time.

"Would you like another chance, child?"The horned creature spoke. It's voice raspy and ancient yet, spoke with wisdom in his olden accent.

"What?" She mumbled with her last breaths, entirely confused.

"It appears that you are at your end, my dear, and considering on how you've lived your sinful little life, I'm not sure _any_ of your so called gods would grant _you_ Eden." It spat venom in it's truth."So I am asking you... Would you like another chance at salvation?" Genevieve was still entirely confused but had no time to think. This creature offered her an option other than hell, which was certain considering her occupation. So she drew her last breath with her answer.

"...Yes."

She nearly felt it smile as it reached out its wrinkled, blackened claws and touched the center of her ribcage. A blossom of glowing gold scriptures grew on her chest and the heart monitor's melody turned to one flat note. A design on a skull surrounded by spikes bloomed at the source of the scriptures as they sunk into her ruptured skin, leaving no trace of existing. She felt herself sink down and the room went black. Feeling a paramedic cover a sheet over her as the ambulance took a detour to the morgue. Genevieve had gotten her unspoken wish to leave without her pain. Leaving the Earth, as the first meteor fell and the call to the horsemen sounded, causing a whole World to crumble behind her. The Apocalypse came had come to Earth as she left it. Ending her life and starting anew in her chance at redemption.

Where Genevieve's true story begins.


	2. The Amulet and The Reaper of Souls

_***Chapter 2 is now both 2 and 3. I'm realizing my chapters are getting progressively larger so i'm trying to match them all up to about the same size.** Nothings different don't worry** :D***_

_Thanks for reading!_

* * *

Genevieve's eyes light up as she her dry gasps force her to sit upward. Her heart drops again at her surroundings. The candlelit cobblestone room is filled with horrors. Hundreds of Skulls and other remains litter the floor and encrust the walls. Rusted metal gates secure her inside. The walls and floor are tainted with dried blood and scorch marks. The distant sounds of unnameable creatures wade about her cell.

"Old bastard lied." She assumes, as Genevieve believes she is in hell.

"What happened? Where the... Where am I?" She says to herself. A revelation goes off in her mind, she can speak again. She can walk, talk, and both of her eyes are appearing to work. She sees a puddle in the corner of the cobblestone room. She looks into the still, black water. Genevieve is gobsmacked, she's normal again. Her face is returned to it's warm, fair tone and the freckles around her nose blend back in with her skin. Her light red, almost blonde hair shines in the candlelit room. Her run makeup is gone as well as the wounds that riddled her neck and face. Not even a scar is present. What she loves best of all was that her lagoon blue eyes match. No longer does her left eye look like a popped grape shoved into her skull. She realizes her clothes were softer than usual as well, she looked down at the only articles of clothing she was allowed to have on in that chilled, damp basement. The oversized fur lined jacket she wore when she was kidnapped in along with a now clean pair underwear. The jacket four sizes too big fell just above her thickened thighs barley concealing the sky blue and white striped boy-shorts underneath. Both garments are feather soft and look freshly bleached. For being tossed into hell, she can't stop smiling. "So this couldn't be hell," she realizes amongst her borderline mischievous laughter. She leans herself on the cell's thin bars to peek out at her surroundings. But she slips for the gate was open. Catching herself clumsily on the handle causing it's rust to shoot out a loud, slow screech that echoes far throughout the prison's hall. The tall girl's repaired eyes widen and her heart drops once more, listening to an unearthly, alerted growl that echoes back from the other end of the corridor.

The creature casts an extremely large shadow as it's heavy paws prowl around the corner. Genevieve's head frantically shifts side to side to look for a place to keep herself hidden. She dashes back into her cell and desperately gathers the skeleton remnance into a pile in a corner farthest from the gate. She lies down in the corner pulling the largest of the skeletons to sheet her. Facing away from the open gate with her eyes clenching closed. Much like how a child does when its afraid of the dark, she hopes that the scary monster will just go away if she doesn't see it. Even though how real the situation is, doesn't much apply to her.

The great beast thuds in it's slow steps and low menacing growls that finally reach Genevieve's cell. It sounded much like a lion. The buried woman tries to take a quick peek through the bones to see if it is one. She opens her eyes slowly and readys to turn her head but something catches her before that. She noticed a small crack in the wall inches from her small somewhat buttoned nose. The crack glowed a familiar gold color, much like how her chest did after she passed to where she is now. A soft hand was tempted to reach out and examine it, but remembered the lion like monster was still nearing her gate. The stomping had reached her room, and steps inside. Its size so great, Genevieve could hear the muscles as they raised the head. It's bestial inhales, scanning the atmosphere with it's most likely acute sense of smell. It locks onto the bone pile.

The horror stalks slowly to the skeleton heap that Genevieve nestled into the best she could. It being so close, that it's breath blows heavy along the girl's tensing neck and face. It's air stenches of morning breath and blood. The beast's nose took in a couple more skeptical whiffs and then stood there as the frightened girl tries her hardest not to cry and/or wet herself.

The barbarous broke the silence with a groan of disappointment, only picking up the stink of decayed bodies and not what is curled up underneath them. It's immense torso turns away. Leaving the room as quick as it came. When the steps faded far enough, Genevieve slowly pushes off the skeletons with the most relieved sigh she can make. Genevieve looks back at the crack in the wall, still glowing that illustrious gold hue. Her hand goes for the glowing blemish in the wall's surface, glowing brighter and brighter the closer she shifts to it. She touches it curiously and nails lightly dig at the pencil thin crevice, breaking off small pieces of olden rock. Looking back at the gate she mentally prays to whoever was considered God in this confusing new world. Hoping that what shes about to do doesn't cause any noise.

Genevieve picks up a skull that is missing it's jaw but equipped with fangs and long, sharp devil horns. Proving it useful with it's many features to be a multi-use shovel. Cautiously, she works at the crack. Carefully using it's horn's to break it even farther, then using it's front teeth to shovel the powdering wreckage. The more she uncovers the glow, the more beams shoot out of the hole, making it difficult to see what resides inside. After a few more deep scoops from her skull shovel, she uncovers a wonder that takes her breath away at a single glance.

The artifact looks like a small apple sized crystal sculpted into a detailed skull. Golden spikes protruded in a perfect circle about the crystal. The spikes pointing north, south, east and west were longer than the ones diagonal between them. A neon gold hue swirls like a small universe in the skull's core. Gen holds the large expensive looking gem, that is also equipped with a silver chain attached to the spike that pointed north. It's a necklace and Genevieve thought it was the prettiest (and most expensive) piece of jewelery she's ever seen. Her mind screams that she simply _has_ to wear this.

Gen cautiously raises the necklace over her head, pulling her waist length, wavy hair from underneath the chain. The large charm settles on the hard surface of her ribcage. The south pointing spike nuzzling between her uplifting cleavage. The skull grazes where the gold scriptures were planted in her chest and a reaction explodes on contact.

White beams of light shoot from the gem that make Genevieve yelp. Blossoms of strange calligraphy flourish from the source of the beams creating ribbons of writing. The ribbons circle Genevieve and create perfect circles about her. The dark horrific room is now filled with white lights as if the sun has broken out of her ribcage. She begins to float amidst the center of the brightened turmoil. Her hair floating as if she were submerged in imaginary water. Genevieve couldn't tell to be astounded or frightened for is too much for her to take in, she tries hard to make some sort of sense of whats going on. She pushes her floating locks shimmering gold in the florescence. In the right corner of her eye she catches one of the glowing lines of writing dancing throughout the room. The only thing she finds legible.

"THE SELECTED... GENEVIEVE HANSON." She reads.

In the quickest instant, the bright beams and scriptures are sucked back into the glass-like skull. In a fashion much like an old television being shut off. In that quick millisecond, Genevieve falls five or six feet only to have dry bones break her noisy fall. She swears in pain when she hits the floor. The aura left the room as the skull dimmed, not even candle light was present in the now colder, further darkened cell. Though, she is too caught up on what lies surprisingly light atop her heart. She clasps the fragile charm in her hands. The light inside is completely gone, she fails to care. Something that could just make her levitate was interesting enough.

"Damn." She swears chuckling to herself. Completely impressed with her new trinket. She tucks the necklace under her jacket and pulls the zipper to her throat. Then the smile fades and the warm colors of her face drain when she hears a low familiar growl behind her.

She slowly turns her head with eyes gaping with fear. Looking upon the beast that almost didn't find her. She was right, it was lion like, but it is greater, scarier, and equips greater teeth and claws. It stood a good ten feet tall, possibly twenty feet from its large scaled head to it's long spiked tail. It is riddled with large red pointed scales. It's giant cat like face, with it's small, beady green eyes and flared, scrunched nostrils. It's mouth packed tight with long, baring teeth outlined with black lips with a low threatening growl sounding from behind them. It's heavy slow steps backing Genevieve further to the wall. It's stance was arched, ready to pounce it's fragile prey. The creature jumps at her with a battle cry of a roar. Moving so swiftly, it's blackened claws make white jet lines through the stale air.

The monster's foot long nails disappear under the cobblestone floor with a ground- shattering thud. It's chest rises revealing his shattered catch. Only consisting of skeletons crushed to pieces underneath it's crippling weight. It snarls in anger. Its giant body turning side to side scanning for it's escaping game. It's small ears prick up at the fast paced, anxious bear feet slapping against the stone floor. The sound shrinking as it echoed down the hall west of the creature's hearing.

Genevieve's feet smack hard on the olden pavement. Her heart pounding harder out of her chest as she hears her cell's gate broken down so easily by the beast's heavy tackle. It gallops full speed down after her. It's claws creating sparks for each time they hurtle along the ground. In the midst of the chase, The tall, frightened twenty-two year old wondered why she deserved this. She swiftly turned the corner, feet skidding and almost stumbling as she glided along the floor. The creature skidded as well but crashes into the wall hard. Leaving a deep welt as it nearly broke through the solid rock. It's clumsiness only serves it to slow it down a mere seven yards. She knew why she was here, she lived a truly sinful life, just like the old man knew. Tears seep though her eyes as her conscience screamed at her. "You were nothing but a dirty whore!" It didn't stop as the heavy stomps and deafening roars drew closer. "You deserve this! You were nothing! A NOBODY! All you did was take down your problems with booze and powder and grinded your goods to any dirty old fucker who flashed you a twenty!"

Genevieve's legs grow sore and her chest pumps scorching dry heat throughout her lungs. Legs skid to their right again and aggrieved feet skid to a stop in their blooming tracks. Her trail ends in a hall that looked to have collapsed years ago. Her body shuts down, Turning around to the red scaled lion running full speed at it's game. The sharp black talons forty feet from her soft skull. She has nothing left to do but collapse to the ground in a fetal stature.

Now Thirty feet, hands hold her head, burying it into her chest.

Fifteen feet, Her thoughts are screeching, "YOU DESERVE THIS, GENNA! YOU GET WHAT YOU DESERVE!"

At three feet, She lets out a deafening swear with the last breath in her chest. A tear falls from her once broken, clenching left eye as the monster's salivating grin nears her. It pounces it's prey one last time.

"FUUUUUUUCK!"

She sobs in the silence. Then a low gurgling gag is heard from above her. Tearful pink eyes open in confusion and Genevieve's head rises from her chest. Her nose accidentally grazing the creature's wet snout. It's face is eerily relaxed and unmoving with as it's jaw lazily hangs. She notices a shine underneath it's neck. Two long crossed blades making an "X" around it's neck. Inner parts of the cutlasses vanish into the flesh, blood lazily dripping along it's edges. There is a sharp sound of metal against metal that pierces the air. The great scaly head slowly departs from it's support and falls to the floor with a thump. Crimson drools and sputters out the creature's clean cut stump that is unfortunately aimed at poor Genevieve's face. She spazzingly scrambles away from the tumbling body about to crush her. Revealing the large creature's killer as the body thuds, cracking the stone.

She climbs back on her feet and stares in awe at the size of the warrior standing before her. Her five foot eight in height is miniscule in comparison to his more than seven foot stature. The giant wore a purple cowl lined with bone. His legs and feet are layered heavily with torn cloth, leather and skulls. A demon pauldron strapped his left shoulder as a scar tattoo is etched into his right. Hair straight yet unkempt with a tar black color that flows long over his bluish ash skin. The man packs heavy with toned muscles. Green glowing shrapnel dug painfully deep in the right pectoral. His course, finger- gloved hands firmly grasping two arcane scythes, the gore from his most recent kill sliding easily off the stainless steel blades. A horrifying bone mask that covered his features except for his amber eyes that hold a dim resonation in the shadow over his deathly features.

Genevieve wasn't sure to be thankful or defend herself from an even stronger creature. She picks up a brittle piece of gate next to the rolling head on the floor. She points it warily in his direction. She chooses to defend herself.

"St- Stay back!" The tall, shaken woman warns. Her attempt of defense sparks a deep chuckle from behind the white mask, ignoring her warning and stepping closer, returning his scythes to their holsters.

"Threatening." His voice low and rugged, yet it holds class with his aesthetic British accent and sarcasm, "Put that rubble down, before you harm yourse-"

Genevieve shrills and a loud ding pierces throughout the hall as the pole cracks at the man's chin in a long anxious swipe. His head pauses to where it was thrown to it's left side. Body unmoved from the impact. With knees at the brink of collapsing under her, Genevieve cocks her arms back to hurl another swing at his head. She hurdles the pole but is caught mid-swing in the large, skeleton encrusted gloves. His head slowly resumes it's position, Genevieve senses the heat of anger and annoyance fuming behind his mask as his eyes lock back to her. Pale fingers grip only with the smallest fraction of strength as they swiftly pull the rusted metal out of Genevieve's hands. They then shove her hard into the fallen jagged wall and almost knocks her out of consciousness. The red head a hair's length from sharpened stone that could have easily broken through the back of her skull and simply reappear out of her forehead. One hand gripping both of her wrists tightly above her head. His grip raises Genevieve shy of a yard from the ground to be at his eye level. Her body squirms like a dying fish. Legs frantically kicking the hardened necromancer armor. Doing nothing but to only give her nasty black and blues. The grip around Genevieve's hands tightening further, the gravity amplifying the sting.

"Okay look! I'm sorry man, okay?" She pleads, "Get off of me!"

Death leans further in. A low short hum of curiosity comes from the back of his throat. He examines her, his free hand holds her chin between his course thumb and forefinger, further reddening her swollen and tearful face. Genevieve stares into the detail of his skull like mask, the worn creases and cracks that riddled the bone. The irises in his eyes are spattered with crimson along the bright orange glow.

"You are human." The masked man stated. Confusion mixes with the fear on Genevieve's look. "Only humans beg for their lives so pityingly." He spits as the hand holding her chin removes itself, lightly throwing her neck to the side. His arm brushes something on her chest. The glowing eyes shift down, then back at the girl's face, with freckles now one shade below his pale hue, then eyes return back to her chest. The finger gloved hand glides up her stomach. The index finger tracing up the zipper. He adds his thumb to the jacket's tab. The tab lowers farther and farther down.

"Please God. . ." She whimpers, humbling. "Not this. . . Not again."

"Quiet, child." He snapped."I have no need for what you're assuming."

The zipper is lowered above her bosom and reveals Genevieve's hidden treasure. He scoops the heavy looking glass out from underneath the jacket. He stares at it with narrow eyes that grow even colder.

"How did you get this?" He instigates.

"I found it."

"Where?"

"What's it ta you?"

"Answer the question you damned fool."

His eyes lit up a bit brighter before his question can be answered. He catches something flicker across her fearful face. Like some sort of picture frantically flashing over another. Bursting as quick as a light bulb going out and leaving just as fast. The masked face caught a glimpse of curdled blood and smudged makeup all over her features. Her gnawed eye along with the deathly paleness that riddled her. For a quick millisecond, he caught the look of what she once was at the end of her life. He knows what she is. That this stubborn woman has some use to him.

"No matter." The man finally let go of her bruised wrists and she grinds with the jagged wall on her way to the ground. "You're coming with me to present you before the Judicater."

"The who?"

"He's going to send you off to whichever afterlife that awaits you."

Genevieve's heart sinks down to her stomach, If she's sent to whoever this Judicater is, her afterlife would end. She knew she would be thrown into the tortures of Hell and she wasn't going to let this man or this "thing," take her there.

"No!" She argues, "I don't want to be sent to another afterlife!" Her voice softens, trying her hardest not to choke on her words. "Because I know where I'd be headed."

"That does not concern me, dead one." The blatant honesty in his voice brings the temperature farther down amongst the corridors."If you are sent to to the city of angels or the lowest level of Hell, that is simply your ordeal. I however, have a task that I am seeing through." His steps draw closer to Genevieve with his hand outstretching towards her arm.

"And when he sends you, you're leaving that amulet behind." Genevieve's blood boils. She isn't going to let some skull faced bastard snuff out her journey like a dying fire. Even when she hasn't yet come across it's purpose.

"No." She thought, "I'm not going to let everything go so easily."

Genevieve bucks back from the warrior's heavy grasp and bleeding feet begin to run again in one final burst of speed around the corner and pushes through the double doors on her right. Heavy boots follow the trail of blood footprints she left behind.

"Do not toy with me, girl!" He snarled as he summoned a spell, calling forth a pair of purple skeleton arms to burst through the heavy double doors. "It's not like you can hide! You leave a damned trail for Creator's sa-"

"Who said I was hiding, motherfucker?"

The masked man freezes dead in his tracks. The floating bones remain, still holding the doors open. Genevieve stopped her running and now leans her right arm outstretched to the wall, pressing her weight onto the glass amulet nearly cracking under the pressure of her hand. Her face of fear is gone and with only a hateful and smug look to take it's place.

"Now you listen to me, Skull Face." Genevieve warns darkly. "One step closer and this pretty little chandelier piece is goin' through this wall here, 'kay?"

"Or through your hand, ever thought of that?"

"You won't have your precious amulet either way, asshole."

The brute growls under his breath. Then sighed as he momentarily glanced at his feet. Then back to her.

"Fine, what are your terms?"

"Okay so first of all," She inhales for her long question. "Where am I and why did you save me back there, what was that thing that attacked me and-?"

"One question at a time dammit!" The mask barks at her. She gives a voiceless rebuttal by pressing her weight into the wall. A crack shoots from the delicate piece clenched tight in her palm that make his is orange eyes shutter.

"You, are in the Kingdom of The Dead." He states, " And what happened to attack you back there is called a stalker, and you should be thankful that I heard you're sad little screams for your life and saved you."

"What are you doing here? Why do you need me?"

"I don't need _you_." He sneers, "I only need three souls to bring to the Judicater to be judged. He never told me there would be fourth. I thought I would bring you as well to do you some sort of favor to get off this forsaken ash dune."

"That is bull!" Genevieve booms with anger that pushes even harder onto the glass. "Who are you? And be honest or say goodbye to your precious piece!"

A small chuckle much darker than the one from earlier is heard. Dark amber eyes lock onto Genevieve infecting her with utmost discomfort. "I have many names, but all who live know of one, child."

"And that is?"

A smirk curls in the shadows behind his mask. He finally casts off the bones holding the doors that slam behind him.

"Death."


	3. The Deal with Death

As her speckled, cramping hand presses hard on the cracking glass, Genevieve desperately sifts through her thoughts. This is far too much for her. Far too many changes in such little time. Genevieve is literally staring Death in the face and she cannot get over that. This isn't the Grim Reaper she has come to know. Where are his black robes and hood? Why is he packed with muscles and not bones? Shouldn't she have seen Death when she passed and not the old man? Genevieve has so many questions. She could have gone for hours holding this "man," hostage. Instigating him on the questions that overflow her conscience. Though, through all the internal turmoil that clouds her judgment, only one sentence falls from her tongue much like word vomit.

"Huh, Death. . . Kinda just rolls off the tongue there, doesn't it? Hah. . ."

"Appears so." Death replies almost awkwardly, wisely choosing a time that is best to strike.

_Stupid!_ She screams in her thoughts that shroud behind her uneasy smile. Of all the things she can ask or say, her mind only allows her to resort some sort of small talk with the Reaper. Among the silence in Genevieve's internal distraction, Death's right hand cautiously creeps behind his back. Genevieve fails to notice from being too preoccupied by fear and every other terrible emotion crushing her mind. His hand clenches tight making it glow a striking pink hue. Death takes the opening to make his move.

In one swift stride, a glowing hand reappears from his back and points at Genevieve's cracking cargo. A horrifying eyeless face emerges with it's mouth shrieking a silent cry. In the quick millisecond, the girl snaps out of her thoughts and sees the florescent ghost coming full speed to her hand. Her body jolts forward violently from the strength of the entity's pull. It feels like it could have ripped her arm out of it's socket. Holding her arm, the bruised human shrills curses into the air as she looks up to what causes her swearing to cease. There in Death's dominant hand rests her only tool for survival as well as the key to her unending questions. Only leaving Genevieve to believe that she is officially of no use to this great power. Becoming nothing more than a lone soul in need of a reaping long passed overdue.

"Now, no more games child," He says, entirely relieved from anymore interrogation. "You're coming with me."

Genevieve nods solemnly and recovers to her feet as she cradles her aggrieved arm. The defeated soul walks to her executioner, granting not one scowling look to the lout that condemns her fate. Damning her as any other proclaimed sinner that stood to challenge him before her. But a strange noise is heard before her feet could set another blood print unto the cobblestone. A noise that brightens her curious eyes and pulls her sights to the being standing in front of her.

A hissing groan of pain rolls out from behind the white mask. A smell foul with the odor of burning cloth and flesh penetrates the atmosphere. Death's growls are deep with agony as he holds himself over his wounded hand that finally drops the smoking amulet to his shaking feet. The blood on the glass-like skull quickly sizzles to a charring brown color on it's searing hot surface.

Genevieve also catches sight of the damage of Death's hand. The amulet burned a deep hole in his insufficiently toughened palm. Blood and flesh seared off so quickly, that it evaporated into a burnt brown crust around the holes between his structures. Leaving only naked bones laced with the remnant strings of burnt muscles that once clothed them. Whatever flesh or skin that is left in his hand are hanging loosely though and around his gash. It is a dreadful sight that has Genevieve fighting down the vomit aggressively crawling up her throat.

As she tastes the backwash souring the back of her tongue, she stares at the glass and golden skull on the floor. Burning so gravely hot, it sinks, smelting and boiling the stone. Immersing itself in the molten red lava it creates, which is probably why she found the piece in a wall in the first place. 3/4ths Of the charm is left above ground where only it's northern gold spike peers above the molten rock. She scrambles to the ground with left hand outstretched to the bloodstained necklace before it completely immerses itself underneath the floor. Though to no avail, for she becomes trapped, allowing the glass piece to sink deep into the mini molten lava pit.

A scythe bares down millimeters from Genevieve's bruised wrist. Locking her arm to the floor between the cutlass and the handle. "Don't. You. DARE." There is a painful rattle in Death's warning with teeth audibly baring behind his cover. He fumes with anger, agitation, and pain as he pins the featherweight arm with one hand and his bloody, incomplete palm pressing against his chest. Genevieve regards his hunching stance. This apparently great, immortal power is hurt and at a point of weakness. If Genevieve had an advantage, it would be now.

"Fuck you." She sneers and her free hand dives elbow-deep into the molten red.

Genevieve didn't exactly think through what she has done but there was something that pushed her to do it. That she needed to have that gem if even the Grim Reaper himself sought after it. Both their heads look down to the arm that disappeared into the molten rock between them. The sounds of sizzling and singeing shot from the bubbling hole in the ground. Smoke and embers bloom as the fabric from her jacket evaporate into ash and fire on contact.

Though, there was no screaming, no hissing in pain or smell of burning blood coming from the seemingly breakable woman and Death takes serious note of that. For all she does is remain frozen, grimly afraid of what mutilations will remain of her right dominant arm. Genevieve's eyelids lock down tautly, preparing herself for what is on her appendage to greet her as it warily ascends from the hole.

The soul's arm completely emerges from what had felt similar to a warm vat of mud or loose putty. She still feels the wet, sizzling goo that trails down her forearm. The drops of lava quickly hardening as they trail further down her contrastingly cool skin. Making her movements a bit difficult to act upon. Genevieve doesn't dare to open her eyes. "Oh my God, I don't have an arm anymore." She begins hysterically. "My arm is gone! Myarmisgonemyarmisgonemyarmisgone-" Death's annoyed, level- headed voice causes her to finally silence and brings her eyes to gape open.

"Your arm isn't gone you lucky little idiot."

Even though layered with the thick, steaming blackness of hot ash and smelting rock, her arm is entirely in tact. The sleeve of her jacket had incinerated, only left with the black smoking fringes that small flames still resonate on her shoulder, utterly failing to singe off her strawberry blonde locks. Numb to the pain, Genevieve fails to notice. Considering that at the the end of her arm, was the charm that was almost a foot in a seething vat of liquid fire. Now dangling from her dirtied fist, clenching the chain tight. Its glow lightly visible through the dripping hot magma.

Genevieve's heart descends down from her throat to her chest. The feeling of relief so heavy in her breast, she does not choose to escape again, having been so emotionally and physically distraught in what must have been shy of a half hour, she slumps onto her back with the deepest rasp of an exhale her lungs could bestow to the air. A sound of kissed metal pierces her ears and her pinned arm's pressure lightens.

"Hm . . . you can withstand fire." Death remarks, "Interesting."

"Yeah, just a little." She sighs scornfully back but doesn't shoot a look over to him. She is too busy marveling at the hot red mud on her hand and the amulet it braces. Steaming mud dripping onto the middle of her jacket, burning holes through the cotton and zipper. The girl points that hand to the onyx haired, angel of death with an index finger withdrawn. "And if you try to make another swing at me again," She threatens, "I WILL drive this fucker up your ass."

A small jeer escapes from his deep voice.

"Said by the mortal who bruises from mere taps."

"What do you mean I'm-" She hisses mid sentence when she looks down her frame. "Owww..." The adrenaline has finally worn off and her body recalls all of the damage she has taken in the mere half hour since her awakening. The light frame is coated with black and blues focusing on her legs. Her once pure jacket burned to shreds and is sputtered with dirt and blood. The the right side of the dead girl's torso is coated with mud. Her eyes follow a frantic trail of fresh blood that leads to her raw feet. Genevieve thought her looks weren't much different from when she died, except this time she was covered in something else'es blood and her left sight wasn't gone.

A tear of fabric pricks up her left ear and her head shifts to the source. Death began ripping the purple fabric below his large, life like bone belt buckle. Getting a long enough piece, he begins to wrap around the burnt hole in his hand. The low sizzling in his flesh becomes muffled by the cloth.

"I don't understand," He says, fussing with each tightening wraparound on his palm, "I have touched that amulet before, why did it mark me the second time?"

Genevieve stays silent, searching for a reply as she stares at the jewel dripping almost clean. As if she could find the answer on the skull's glass surface. Noticing the cracks she inflicted unto it have disappeared. She stands up warily to keep from aggravating her pained lower body.

"Maybe a really, _really_ small part of me. . . .Wanted you to touch it."

Death cocks an eyebrow. Genevieve continues to the pale horseman, "Not in a nasty kind of way, more like a, 'hey look what I got and you don't,' kinda way." She mimics in a monotone voice as she raises the amulet to his arm. It touches his skin but does not deal any damage. The Grim Reaper is ambivalent on what to feel, shuddering slightly from it's touch. Her hands lower to her sides as she shrugs,

"You know what I mean?"

"To be honest, you haven't made any sort of sense since you decided to start talking." He grumbles. Genevieve scowls. "And then you started being even more of nob and took this thing away from me." She swipes the spikes across his forearm, leaving hissing trails of blood below his scar tattoo. Death grunts at the sudden shock of the burns.

"What the hell are you gaining from trifling with me?!" He thunders getting in the girl's face. She pulls back being cautious on how far she treads. A situation much like a small, courageous kitten clawing at a giant, snarling dog. But she however, holds her offensive stance.

"Well you're big, scary Death right?"

"Yes."

"And I assume that nobody fucks with you considering your standing?"

"I wish that were right in all cases. Especially yours." Death huffs irately.

"So yeah you do. And you being said Death, you must know all the ways to heaven and hell right?"

"I know of most of them."

"You're taking me there."

"Where?"

"Heaven." Genevieve's says without any sort of stutter, "Take me there where its safe, and you can have this." She holds the trinket up above her head about ten inches from the tall man's face. Pinching opposite ends of the chain with her delicate, callus-less fingers. He is aware that she knows exactly what she wants by her tone of voice. He likes it, finding it sexy in to be specific. However Death pauses, thinking hard of what he's about to get into with this foolhardy human. If they _do_ get to Heaven, (If this little mortal even lasts that long,) Death could just dump her, take his prize and be on his merry way. Or whatever the Reaper of Souls considers to be merry.

"Very well." He finally agrees. "Just be careful of where you tread, mortal, there will be danger at nearly every turn on our way, especially in the Kingdom of The Dead." The girl smiles, and returns the Amulet to it's rightful place around her neck. His unharmed palm touches the dirtied fur lined sleeve in her tattered jacket. Ripping the sleeve off as easy as tearing a piece tissue paper. Genevieve jolts with a startled yelp. Looking back at Death with her eyes flaring hot. "Be ready for everything, you're not going to last long if you keep jumping like that." He adds. Genevieve could have sworn she heard a small snicker from her response. Making her look grow meaner. "And don't give me that look," The Kinslayer orders darkly. "We cannot have you bleeding all over the place. (Though I wish your profuse bleeding would just kill you.) I must tend to your wounds." The bruised red head recalls the blood trail to her feet and she complies, resting her end on the cold floor. Both hands holding down the bottom of her now sleeveless jacket between her legs to avoid him catching sight of her intimates.

Death kneels to her feet, ripping off a couple pieces of the plum cloth from the sides of his outfit. His wounded hand gently raises Genevieve's left foot, still bleeding profusely from all of the jagged rocks that punctured it, "I don't have any potions left, so I'm going to have to bandage you." Placing one piece of the white fleece under the sole of her foot, he wraps it with the purple cloth to keep it in place. "Nephilim heal quickly, humans however, clearly do not." Death affirms, raising her right leg, repeating what he had done on the other foot. "So I'm going to be forced to care for you until we find a potion." He glares at the bruises on her legs from all the useless kicking and screaming from earlier, ignoring the stripped panties nestling between them. "Perhaps we will have to find some armor for you as well."

When he finishes, Genevieve resumes to standing, lightly patting the ground, feeling like she's walking on clouds compared to the pins and needles she had to step on before. She couldn't help but smile sweetly at him, like a child just getting a Christmas present. Death wasn't very sure how to take it. "Aww, big bad Death made me feetsies." Genevieve coos as her innocent smile fades to a smug grin, cloaking her gratitude. The pale Nephilim groans, rubbing his temple, "Come, we must go." The smiling young woman nods and trots to Death's side as he once again calls upon the neon- purple bones to open the double doors for them.

"This is it, Genna," She thinks with a smile that plasters over her fear for the future. "You're on your way now."

They walk together down the dungeon hall, the double doors closing behind them.

* * *

_Hey guys :D Longer chapter I know,I've been noticing how my chapters are mad small compared to other fanfics I've been reading so I've been trying to make these bigger. Which is why this one took kinda long-_- But how are the characters? Hows do you think the storys going? __**Let me know of your feels!**__ XD_

**_~Lexi_**


	4. Fast Feet and Crushed Throats

"So that's what you call yourself, a Nephilim?" Genevieve inquires, hoping to get to know of the person that she'll be with for the rest of her long trip. His crow, Dust, perching comfortably on his tattoed shoulder "'That some sort of species?" Death nods,

"We were once a great race, a cross of demon and angel. We had a desire for war and concurred countless worlds. Crushing all who stood opposing us."

"You said 'once'."

"Yes, once." His glance becomes more astray from the girl as his mind roams elsewhere. "My three brothers and I are all that remain. As the Four Horseman of the Apocolypse."

"Woah, What?" She gapes in awe, "That's so freakin' crazy." Death finally looks upon Genevieve with a glare holding zero settlement. The bird caws threateningly with it's wings fully spread.

She cringes with an apology squeezing between the spaces of her teeth. When she resumes her posture, she gains courage to continue the conversation,

"Mind if I ask what happened to them?" Raising cream hands in front of her, "But you don't have to answer If you don't want to!" She is careful of stepping over the line of whom is already giving looks that could kill her once more. But the cautious mortal does no such thing, for Death looks over his broad shoulder to her with eyes glowing dimmer than before.

"We had our sights set on your world. That's what happened."

There is either remorse or anger perceptible in Death's one, It is hard for Genevieve to tell. Though her hand rests on his forearm, "I could never catch how dreadful that must feel. But it's not all bad." She adds with a bit more optimism. "At least you still have your family." Death chuckles briefly in the same tone as before. "You probably understand loneliness better than I could ever fathom." The girl's face twists to confusion at the response. Death goes on flatly, "Having no one, even after your demise."

_'The hell does he mean by that?_ She wonders.

"Well, that's not true." The soul argues, attempting to understand the meaning of his sick joke. "I got you, don't I?"

Before Death could give an answer to a question he found to be almost sickeningly ignorant, hissing and clanking metal creeps closer in a neighboring hallway. His arm outstretches across Genevieve's chest, wary of not burning himself again. Dust flaps off of his Nephilim perch into the darkness to find a safer pace to rest. Brittle, black feathers floating to the ground in it's wake.

"Death, what was-"

"Quiet!" He pushes her back around a darkened corner."If you wish to hold onto your tiny forlorn existence I suggest you remain here." Death stresses, "**Do not move a muscle**." Her head bobs quickly in agreement with body tense, complying with his order. His broad torso spins away from her and he disappears into the corner to destroy the source of the rasping, deep growls. Genevieve peaks with heavy curiosity at the strange new sounds. Sounds of intertwining swords, braking armor and cracking skulls. Even though given many commands in life, this young spirit was never really known to listen.

Her golden laced blue eyes peep ever so slightly out from the corner of the hall. Her eyes gape and her jaw parts from the match before her. Three skeletons that look to have once belonged to great soldiers from centuries, possibly millenia ago. Wielding heavy swords, they attempt to gang up on the pale rider, circling him and swiping their weapons. Death blocks and counters each attack with his bone lined gauntlets and scythes. Two of the soldiers that were opposite of the warrior swipe at once, aiming at his shoulders to break off his arms. Death catches the swords mid swing in both of his scythes. As he holds both the swords baring down on him, the third skeleton roams around his back, it raises it's piece to strike his protruding spine.

A pelvis bone casts through the air and bounces off the ancient skeleton's helmet. It twists it's head with a heavy breath that sounds similar to a low roar. Genevieve hails more rocks and skulls at the distracted soldier, some hitting the other skeleton fighting onto Death's right, bringing it's attention to her. Harvester receives some slack and lends a chance to cut one of them down. Slicing through the corpse's torso breaking through the armor, he has time to focus on the ghoul on his left, gauntlets grip the soldier and swiftly tears it's head and extremities with both hands. Kicking the still standing pieces to the wall ending with an explosion of olden bones.

Death hears the roar from the final skeleton that has it's glowing blue sights on Genevieve. It had already made its way far down the corridor that holds her hiding place. Genevieve keeps away from being in the sword's range but the creature lunges to her with it's gauntlet in a fist, punching so deep into her stomach, she feels the impact in her spine. The delicate entity heaves much like dying car in an old cartoon and collapses to the ground before the riant soldier. "**WEAKLING!**" The monster calls her with it's scimitar- like sword unsheathed. She coughs uncontrollably and eyes water from the pain in her gut, looking up to the monster that cruelly savors her fear. **"YOU HAVE TAKEN MY SOUL, REAPER!"** It roars, raising it's weapon, **"NOW I SHALL TAKE YOUR BAWD!"** The blade hails heavy down to her aiming for her slender neck.

It misses, the sword puncturing the ground instead of flesh. It blares a bothered groan while it attempts to pull the steel from the solid ground. It allows Genevieve to have room away from it and to wonder where her supposed protector is. She spots Death about twenty feet down the hall looking strangely content. His weapon is unequipped and back on his person. He leans on the cobblestone wall with arms folded focusing on her intently. Genevieve finds it queer, he looks like he's patient for something to happen. She finds his look so unnerving she began to shout, "Having a good rest there, chap?!"

"Oh, quite!" He freshly answers. Tugging the weapon it had driven so deeply into the floor, the sword finally releases and the skeleton hurls it at Genevieve's face. Pulling her head down with her hands she ducks the attack. "FUCKING HELP ME!" She wrathfully orders when she jumps back up to stand again. Only he does nothing of the sort, he merely leans there, watching intently as she dodges every onslaught the creature inflicts."You have no need for my aid," He calls back as the creature persists at her. It's anger intensifying with each stride. "Not yet."

**"ENOUGH!"** The ghoul barks and pulls Genevieve hair at the base of her scalp as she dodges his last sword swing. She yelps, dragging to wherever the skeletal hand guides her. It pulls her to it's chest plated rib cage, holding it's cutlass holds around her neck. **"YOUR EXISTENCE CEASES NOW!"** The cutlass shifts and falls heavy to the ground. The steel is clean of any blood, failing to puncture the skin of it's hostage. A decapitated arm clumps the stone and a demonic shrill is heard. Genevieve's locks gain freedom and she hastily pulls away from the suffering monster. Watching how two heavy blades stab deep into it's back and the ghoul hushes from shock. Reacting to how it is effortlessly ripped apart in one swift pull of the scythes. Olden armor and bone burst in a split second, showering the area around them.

When the last bone falls, The pale horseman returns Harvester to it's true place on his hips. Catching the damsel's face, her look steaming ferociously rather than distress. She lunges at him, throwing punches, kicking and roaring into his chest. "YOU LOWLY PIECE OF TRASH!" Her pipes nearly pierces Death's ears and four jagged scratches glide down his cheek, unable to leave a mark and barely hurt. None of her blows really do.

"You almost let me die! You were supposed to protect me! You liar! You're nothing! You-"

She throws her arching fingers out to Death's face to slash it again. His palm beats her to it and holds her straining wrist but does not put any pressure. "You did well out there." He says to her. The blows cease as her look switches to her previous confused look. "You're very quick on your feet and predicting people's movements. Which means you'll do well of keeping out of trouble, as well as keeping close to me." He continues, letting go of her spiced arm. "Perhaps. . . Perhaps your not entirely hopeless."

"Uh. . . Thanks." She mutters, unsure on how to take his compliment. A light bulb blinks bright in her mind, finally getting why Death was standing so idly by. "Wait! So that's why you just stood there watching me get my ass kicked? For some sort of fucking test!?" She demands for an answer. Getting as much in the pale horseman's face her shorter stature would allow her.

"You were the one who believed that it was a smart idea to bring all of that unneeded attention towards you!" The Executioner's tone grows low and harsh, "But to be blunt, I honestly believe you deserved it." His neck shifting closer to Genevieve's level, their faces inches apart. His pointing forefinger separating a dangerously thin line between them, "I thought that since that skeletal warrior had already made it to you, I might as well have seen how long you'd last."

The mortal's face was tingling and can almost feel her eyes go bloodshot from the fury boiling inside her. Her hand itching to rip off her necklace and stab the sharpest, longest tip deep into his glowing corneas. Then Death continues farther, the inches between them seem more like centimeters. His confidence grants him to tread over the line. "Yes, and about you getting you're arse kicked, I just felt due to your crassness, that you weren't kicked enough as a child. Perhaps I have thought someone else should continue where your elders have fail-"

Death chokes on the final syllable in his scorning when a fist crushes his addams apple. The girl's knuckles retract and her arms fold as she storms away from Death who coughs slightly at the sudden blow.

"That actually, hurt. . ." Death thought, clearing his throat.

No child of man has ever come against him in such a way. Death was feared by all in the Third Kingdom. A God before men and this woman, this mere, valueless human, punches him dead in the throat. And it actually pains him. The two remain silent as Death regains the wind that had been knocked out of him so sharply. Staring at the girl bitterly sitting on the cold floor with her back against the wall, hugging her knees in her chest.

"What are you called, human?"He asks, having fully recollected himself. Her anger seethes through her glare up to him, then returns forward. "Genna." She mutters flatly.

"That's a horrid shortening for a name." Death complains, "That cannot be what you're truly called."

"I know." She chuckles softly at the ground, she then shrugs, "My names just far too long to pronounce so it's just what everyone calls me."

"How lazy of them."

Her chin raises from the space between her kneecaps. Looking up trying not show too big of a grin. Her almond shaped eyes gazing up to him look bigger from the position she in. The shaved gold in her sapphire irises gleaming.

"Genevieve Hanson."

* * *

**_XcelltasticX_**

Oh my god you think this word shit is beautiful? thank you!There will be lots of Genevieve crumbling Death I promise you. Plus other unnameable things :3

_**Mopiece**_

Thanks for telling me that my story's going well no matter the size. Yeah about Death's personality, I feel there's WAY too much fanservice In some fan fiction for the character's personalities to remain intact, they become too mushy too fast and it doesn't make sense to me. Plus I'm happy you're enjoying the story and you're honesty on my work means allot. That shit's respectable as hell.

_**jess**_

Thank you! I put a decent amount of work in the prologue and I hope you like how the rest story tuned out.

**_See you next entry peoples, the get out of the dungeon soon I promise! :)_**

**_Lexi_**


	5. The Way to The Judicater

They progress through the outer realms of the dungeon. Death taking the liberty of slashing foes and monsters they come across. Genevieve however, is forced to remain in the sidelines, hiding and running from the deathly creatures. She does find it a lot of fun to watch Death fight countless waves of monsters, he would be an amazing rugby player, Gen thought. Thinking of him in the little uniform, breaking his tiny opponents bodies to mangled pulp as he holds the ball under his arm. The thought of all the money she would win from all of the bets bring a smile pinning up her lips. Though, she still doesn't enjoy being a mere observer hiding in the darkness in all of this. The girl wants to take some sort of action, she hates feeling so useless, one of Death's favorite names to call her.

Death executes another undead prowler, easily chopping it in two halves. Souls emerge from the gashes, floating through the air, then pull to Death like a magnet. Genevieve shudders, hating to look upon their horrible faces, hearing their breathless cries. "What is the matter?" He moves to another prowler skeleton, destroying it to mere rubble. "I thought you would be used to the sight of another soul." She gazes at the glowing souls, swimming about the air like tadpoles in a tiny pond. "I'm not." She mutters, watching him strike more of the creatures, the souls blossoming from the wreckage. "Is that what I'm supposed to look like?" She asks herself as her feelings of misplacement overwhelm her.

After taking care of a couple more undead champions, they scout the area for supplies. A large room for storage is filled with crates and old items to destroy. Genevieve outstretches a hand to open one of them, but Death puts out his hand over her's, shaking his head. "Well fine then." The small spirit gives a dirty look, just wanting to do something other than walk or watch him fight. "If you wanna be a gentleman, you open it for me."

Death walks past Genevieve to the crates, his stance hunched as he withdraws Harvester. He strikes the first box, smashing it to pieces with one hit.

"Ever thought of just opening them, Death?" She questions, examining one of the many breakable boxes.

"That doesn't appeal to be very much fun." The reaper answers, slashing another box, to his dismay, held nothing. Genevieve however, grunts as she pushes the heavy lid of her crate. The lid thudding as it hits the floor. She ganders inside, a giant grin stretches across her face. "DEATH! Death! Look!" The Grim Reaper groans and glances to the apparent treasure she has uncovered. Inside rests a gleaming pile of gold pieces. Enough to sheet the entire depth of the crate. A strange, glowing green vial is slightly buried underneath the riches. "Ah, good work, mortal," He pulls out the glass, shaking off the excess coins its covered in. "You found us a potion."

"Good work?" Her voice heightens with bright eyes arch. "I just made us filthy rich!" Death calls her an insult under his breath.

"Glit is much more common than it is in your realm. Not everything bright and glimmering retains value. Furthermore, since we're on the subject of glitzy things." He glares at Genevieve, holding the potion over to her. "It's about time you recovered yourself."

Entirely insulted by the remark, the woman huffs as he snatches the lime vial from his hand. "I'd have you know, Mr. Horseman." She says with a dirty smile, removing the skull capped potion with a pop. "I was real pricy in life. I don't think your raggedy-ass would have been able to afford this." She motions her free arm down her body. "Name your price, Dead One." Death jeers, "I have more than enough glit to make the pile in that box resemble pocket change."

"Sure as shit don't look it." She says rolling her eyes and takes a swig. A shiver goes down her spine and her eyes clenching and tears run. What looked to have the flavor of an appletini tastes of swill thrown up twice, her stomach turning upside down under her pale skin. She exhales with a heavy shake in the back of her throat. Death couldn't help but chuckle, he takes joy in her suffering. But the girl doesn't bother to give a look. She is too busy feeling her pain go from numb and fade to an icy, pleasant cool as the swelling and cuts dissipate. A relaxing, near sultry sigh passes her lightly pursed lips. "I dunno, Death, I charge extra when it comes to spending the night with creeps."

"Who said I was purchasing you for your company in bed?"

"I sure didn't." The girl scoffs glancing at the fool's gold and away from Deaths stare, "But you sure as hell don't seem like the bloke that takes a girl out for dinner."

"I'm afraid I'm not." He grins unveiling his wounded hand, imprinting their conversation to his thoughts. The holes through his hand had closed quite fast considering all the meat that was baked off, but there is a crust of burnt skin and scabs that remain. Genevieve squirms just looking at it. The reaper takes the already open vial and pours the green substance unto the wound. It's as if time moves backwards on his palm, singes fade as the hole closes, the amulet's face print visible to where It began to burn into him. "Uhh..." Genevieve's gapes, gobsmacked by the magic happening before her eyes, "I didn't have to drink that?"

"I did not say you had to." Death answers bluntly. The girl scratches the back of her head looking away from his gaze, feeling idiotic.

The hole finally closes, leaving not one scar. Death moves his fixed hand freely, stretching the muscles and shaking off the excess medicine. "Lets make our leave." Heavy steps move in front of her. Genevieve quickly dives into the box and plucks a couple of glit pieces, putting them in her pocket as she catches up with the Kinslayer. This fool's gold isn't of no use to her.

* * *

"Dead one, I almost forgot this." Scavenging Genevieve looks around to Death, despising the demeaning name when she had given him her actual one. Something heavy hits her chest before she could protest. Catching the heavy metal in her arms she wobbles with one leg in the air and the other barely grasping her balance. Catching herself, she holds up the sheet of chains. "Chain mail?" the klutzy girl guesses. Death nods, "I found them while we were searching through those cases." He pulls out a pair of large knee-high boots with straps around the side and base of them along with a pair of old leather chaps. "Put them on."

The armor looks sturdy enough, they most definitely smelled enough. Genevieve shrugs, believing she probably smells just as horrible as her new wardrobe. She pulls the metal rings over her head. "I suggest you tuck in your hair." Death offers raising a hand towards her cheek, "We don't need something else 'toying' with your precious locks now would we?" He holds a clump of curls in his hand, combing lightly though his bony fingers. He was right. Genevieve does an excessive amount of hair. Its thick and bounces when she walks. Beginning straight at the scalp, then intertwines into loose beach curls at her shoulder blades. Finally ending smoothly above the dimples on her rear. It's a hazard that can get her into trouble in conflict. She shoves off Death's arm, whom was still touching her unfirm coils. He simply got lost, her hair is just so soft to him.

The hair twists thick around her palm and it is stuffed into the back of her sweater. She pulls the heavy chain mail over her head and pulls the hood out from underneath. She puts on the oversized tights and ties them taut on her waist. Finally, the size nineteen boots are slipped on and she buckles them snugly enough to get blood clots in her legs. Death steps back to look at her wardrobe. The ring vest weighs her down makes her slouch, the boots are more than double her size and her chaps look more of oversized leather pants.

"One more thing." He says putting his arms around her neck. Speckled cheeks flush pink from their faces being so close. The gray hood of her jacket pulls over her head, revealing the leopard print cat ears stitched into the top. Unamusement plasters his low eyes and tone. "In this mere few hours I've been around you," An awkward smile bares on Genevieve's speechless face.

"I am already not surprised."

* * *

"Are we there yet?" Genevieve tiling her head back, overdrawing her groan. Death walking in front of her doesn't answer, feeling what he is about to show her may speak for him. "Hey." She fusses for his attention. "Hey Death. Hey. Not talkin' to myself." The reapers boots halt as Genevieve's follow. They are only feet before the next room that lacks a floor. It's very open compared to the previous rooms they fought through, but only a deep, foggy abyss was to be found. Foundation remnances and poles once holding eye catching structures in the room have long disappeared. Rotting underneath the smoke in the trench's bottom. "Yeah, big hole in the ground. What of it?" She asks roughly, shrouding her fear of falling in.

"We're going to get across." He turns his back to her, bending his legs low, assuming the position to give what is known in the Third Kingdom as a piggy-back ride. "And of course, I will be forced to carry you."

Genevieve's snickers with sarcasm blatant through her taunt. "Alright Death, as much as I'd **_love_** to see your nonexistent donk out at me, we gotta go find another way. Kay, lets go." She walks down the foyer the way they came. No footsteps follow her and she takes notice. Her head turning back to Death standing motionless with a stern look, as if expecting her to return without a call. "There is no other way." He argues, following Genevieve's now giant boot tracks. The awkwardly dressed woman scoffs at him, "Well you can count me the out, I don't need to die again, thanks."

"Such a stubborn girl."

"Hey-HEY WHAT ARE YOU-?" The soul's hand jolts forward and is thrown through the air. The center of her torso stings at the impact on Death's protruding spine drilling into the amulet on her chest. His strong stone like arms lock in her legs around his waist. Forcing her arms to lock about his neck so she doesn't fall backward.

She shouts her question,"WHAT IN THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!?" Death begins trotting to the room keeping the bottomless pit, and his speed heightening at a gravely speed.

"Death! Don't you dare! No! No! No! **NONONONONOO!"**

His feet leave the ground, striding through the air with arms letting go of her shaking legs. Genevieve screeches in his ear deafeningly enough to mistake her for a banshee. Her screaming ceases with the impact of Death's back smacking the wind out of her.

His claws grip the damaged wood pole, toes inches above the broken end. Genevieve's looking much like a shaking koala in a tree. Her face buried in Death's indigo cowl serving to muffle the many curses and threats she repeats upon her carrier."I hope you're not going to act like that the entire climb," He says, climbing up to the ceiling as far as the pole can allow him, "We have a long way to go."

A hysterical groan muffles from the creases of the cowl, sounding like she may have said, "**Oh, Goody**!"

He jumps from poles to the foundations on the walls. From the foundations to grinding along the surface with only his nails and sprinting feet to get him to the next cliff. Even with every yelp and curse that shoots out from the small passenger clinging for her dear afterlife, she's astounded. Never in her life has she seen anything Death has done in their short time together. Making her screams of fear turn a different direction. Becoming more like she's screaming on a roller coaster ride than fearing Death itself. She feels safer with the rider in her embrace, making her screams turn to laughter whenever Death's hands grapple a ledge. "You're having much more fun than I intended."

"Such a shame when plans backfire-" Another joyous cry interrupts her sentence along with her near indocile giggling. When her laughter calms just enough to finish her sentence, "Doesn't It?" She could see the skin that touches his mask creasing. Knowing there is smile curling underneath that bone mask.

* * *

Death and Genevieve arrive to what appears to be a the bleak foyer. Its dark with only dim candles to guide them through the piles of bodies lying about. Gates closed off with only platforms to activate them. On a strange stone shrine with one large inner ring and three small outer rings. Death holds stance dead center in the larger ring, calling upon his Dead Lords to do his bidding with an escalation of his palms.

A glowing green entity emerge from one of the rings. The Dead Lord, Phariseer, equipped to the teeth with heavy armor and an ax. He ironically holds tiresome, withered features as his body is mummified from the eons of suffering under The Lord Of Bone's torment.

"I will serve." Phariseer kneels before his victor who had beat him into submission in combat.

Death gives him commands to open latches and press on platforms. He complies almost instantly, Genevieve finds this curious. She finds his whole appearance to be curious, was she supposed to be a decomposing corpse that mindlessly follows orders?

She tries to ask but the corpse floats past her without a single glance as he only focuses on his master's order at hand. Whenever he would pass her, she would try to ask him something, anything. "Hey Phariseer, I was wonder..." Phariseer forging past her to his work as if she were not there.

She tries again, "Did you ever think..." The Dead Lord ignoring her as before, only going to a different platform. But her questions are cut short with each attempt, only having her answers ignored as he presses the stock his giant ax unto another platform. Death and Genevieve passing through the final door to the Judicater's tomb. Gen didn't have much time left.

"Did it ever come across to you that I'm just as dead as you are?"Genevieve's final question gets a response.

A glare from Phariseer's green arching eyes lock to her as he passes her a final time. The last gate is released and they pass through, Genevieve feeling the mercenary's glare she and Death pass. She knew that look, it's a look of overbearing envy. Enough jealousy and hatred to have one kill that person for what they have. Genevieve doesn't doubt that he wouldn't try if Death were not his master.

The only question is what is the reason for such hatred?

They pass an arcane barrier that resembles an electric fence used for retain the ghosts inside. When Death and Genevieve cross the smoking green barrier, the specter fades into the ground, the feeling of his glare on his object of abomination still lingering on her disturbingly.

"We're here." Death finally tells Genevieve. Genevieve's eyes sting to what feels as if she hasn't been near any natural light in years. The daylight keens and she gases at the thousand year old courtyard before her. The great castles slowly falling to mere shambles at the unrelenting force of time. Cages still holding the decayed bones of their captives hang by single shards of metal. There is an iron stand in the center of the rubble where someone similar to Phariseer resides, standing patiently to to land the judgment to give to the third soul.

"Judgment is at hand." The Judicater states.

Death's once wounded hand raises with a striking green hue. The human skull emerges from the interdiction shaking violently and pulls too the judge's grasp.

"Humans, always so frightened. . ." He glances to the girl slowly stepping behind her paid protector.

"**See your life as you truly lived!**" The soul disintegrates in an astonishing explosion in the Judicater's hands. Leaving only the soul's smoke in it's wake.

Death reaches around his back and grabs Genevieve by her chain mail.

"Were you certain that you heard only _three _souls confined in this dungeon?" He pulls her in front of him. She would have stumbled to the ground if it weren't for the blunt edges of the black metal fence catch her by the stomach. "For I may have recovered you a fourth."

Genevieve's anger points back to the horseman with betrayal. She hasn't felt this betrayed since that man promised her a some stardust and a night on the town and instead got three on a basement floor with rats and a blooded open neck. She opens her mouth to call him a "cock sucker," but the Judicater intervenes.

"You question my senses horseman." He states darkly, "I heard the cries of three souls, only three. I had perceived this human corpse in the dungeons." Genevieve looks up to the entity that holds the power to easily throw her into damnation. Her feeling of anger for the horseman overpowering her fear for the Judicater.

"But she is not for me to judge, she is not destined for where I would channel her." The judge of souls concludes.

"Any thought on where this 'destiny,' of hers resides?"

"I do not hold that answer, horseman."

"Then it is finished, your lord summons you."

He rises into the air from his metal stand, bowing before his new master. "I am forever his servant."

Judicater sinks to the ground into a spiral of scriptures, disappearing until his next call.

"You were going to let that guy take me off your hands, you cock sucker!" She snarls, reaching underneath her jacket for the amulet.

"Even though I wish he could, that wasn't my motive." He defended, "I was merely asking him if he was aware of your presence. It's not ordinary to come across a soul as intact as yours wandering the Land of the Dead." He walks in front of Genevieve to the exit of the Tomb.

"Especially since the Earth's demise." The Earth girl's boots pause dead in their tracks. Her agitated look fades blank and grows pale.

"Wha- What do you mean, 'demise'? What's wrong with Earth?"

"You mean you are not aware . . ?"

Death's stops his movements as well, he glances over his tattooed shoulder with a bewildered glare.

". . . How long were you in that dungeon?"

* * *

**_Yo._**

**_So I've gotten reviews concerning how the story may or may not play out. They've been nice and helpful but I wanna say some things._**

**_Okay, so this may start out working with the story, but it will trail off eventually,_**

**_I want to surprise you guys, I feel that stories that tie themselves too far into the actual game play have no surprises because most people beat the games before they read. So you know what happens to the main characters. And I don't like that shit. I put twists in my stories, because I wan't you guys to respond like, "WOAH, WOAH WHAT?"_**

**_you know what I mean?_**

**_Alright and secondly:_**

**_I've already gotten allot of characters down already but some that were mentioned in the reviews made my mind kinda blow up and now I have to do more research for writing, but the different races are gonna react to Genevieve in entirely different ways. For example, how the Dead Lords react to her. Which is by the way, really important and is gonna cause some serious shit later._**

**_Okay I'm gonna go sleep off a headache._**

**_bye for now._**

**_~Lexi_**


	6. Compassion

Genevieve holds her near frozen leg from her painful ride on The Grim Reaper's steed, Despair. The horse was intimidating to her, looking to have rotted for years with it's decomposing skin and bone. It's face bare of any muscle, leaving only its foggy jade eyes and grinning dark skull to remain. Glowing smokey-green flames are a blossoming substitute for it's mane and tail and dance hazily about it's hooves.

Death, already set on the soulless animal's back, held out his hand to help her onto the intricate spike encrusted metal that serves as it's saddle. She grabbed the palm that completely consumed her soft, skinny hand, but the flames that she had hoped would not scorn her did. The warhorse denies her aboard and bucks backward as she put her right boot on the stirrup. Genevieve swings over the flames on the horses legs. Her left leg grazed the fires that, strangely, weren't hot at all. Nonetheless, they still caused a grave amount of pain. One slightest contact felt like liquid nitrogen slashing across her limb. The icy fires would have frostbitten her to a swollen ink black if it weren't for her armor. The below-zero temperatures instead freeze burned her skin raw and with no potions left on her or her collaborator. Leaving the dead woman to writhe in her pain as she hears the tragic story of how the Apocalypse wrongfully came to Earth and his brother, War, was framed for it.

"Listen to me, child, don't act like this. . ."

"You shut your mouthless face, Reaper! My fucking world is dead, I have every right to act like this!" Genevieve snaps, poisonous tears flowing down her pained face from the mental and physical turmoil. All of this unfolding as they both stood in front of the final Dead Lord's tomb. Her face then fades blank and her eyes slender, "No... You're lying to me."

"Genevieve." He groans irritably.

"No!" The soul's denial sharply kicking in."Why do you have this... This hard on for messing with me?! " Genevieve instigates angrily. "Is this over me slashing your arm or something? Cause that was just one time!" She under exaggerates and Death rolls his eyes.

"You must heed my words Dead One, your world is no more than you are, or the rest of this forsaken realm. You must believe that I speak the truth."

"Oh, shove it with your truth," Genevieve barks tiresomely with her middle finger raising upright towards the horseman. "You talk like you've been speakin' of it this whole time." Her hand calms, as does her tone that turns sharply into sarcasm, "I mean, your first one was a _promise_ to protect me, but that was full of it since all you've done is watch me get hurt just to, you know, 'see how long I'd last.' I mean..." She pulls the talisman from underneath her layers, "Do you even want this thing anymore? 'Cause it seems you'd prefer more to make my life even more fucking miserable."

Death didn't avoid Genevieve's look in time, the eye contact from her is near unbearable for him. A look of having absolutely no trust and only betrayal, as if he were the one who threw her in that dark room and left her for dead. To make things worse, she is even threatening to break off the deal. Looking about ready to break the amulet to pieces before his dark amber eyes.

"If I wanted to make your existence miserable, I would have let that stalker slowly eat at your limbs and save your head for last." He says disturbingly calm, "Or I would have watched that soldier beat you until you were coated in your own blood with all of your puny bones snapped. But I have done no such thing." He walks past his protected to the entrance of the tomb and holds the door open for her. His voice shifts to more of a flat growl. "**Feel fortunate you have come across someone so kind and merciful as I**." Genevieve follows through with a limp in her step, looking at Death in the eye from the corner of her sights.

"That's what I thought."

As the same as before, Death does all of work as Genevieve hides and keeps away from the ghouls. But she has grown sluggish. The mortal has trouble running and is a bit dazed. Her symptoms getting worse the farther they progress. The stinging and groaning in the pit of her stomach grows heavier as she limps. Death finally notices when a skeleton swipes it's sword on her left side. She lets out a shriek and thuds to the ground. She holds her head and waits smiting that never comes.

A sound of metal pierces though the wind and a shower of bones fall upon her instead. Before she could raise her neck, something scoops her from the ground quick enough to make her tired body jump in the air.

Genevieve suddenly has her cheek pressed against Death's pectoral. His coarse scent seeping into her small nose, inches away from the sharp glass dug deep into his blue skin. She sits surprisingly comfortable on Death's left arm that holds her gently. Her tiring pony eyes escalate up to the cracked bone mask that were once certain to lack any kindness to display.

"We've been traveling for a long time. And I am aware of human necessities for survival." He acknowledges. "But I cannot have you rest just yet. I must make sure that it's safe." Genevieve nods but doesn't break her glare at the mask that appears to be showing some sort of compassion.

"As I wouldn't exactly..." Death sighs. "Fancy you getting hurt again."

Her slightly full lips turn to an upward curve, knowing that underneath the realism in his words and bluntness in his tone, there is the smallest note compassion, even worry. Nestled so subtly underneath it all, but loud enough for the cradled girl to catch. Or at least that is what she believes she is catching, she is not entirely positive.

Nevertheless, her body relaxes, sinking into the space between his muscles, feeling like she hasn't been able to relax in decades. Her breaths lulling, taking in the unrefined yet, somewhat homely and rugged scent on his skin. Her baggy eyes rest but she does not slumber. For she knows that this forsaken tomb will not grant them any sort of pause on their journey.

* * *

"What was your purpose in existence, human?" Death inquires, gazing down at Genevieve's embroidered animal ears.

"Nnwhuh?" The leopard- eared redhead grunts, muffling through her hood and his chest.

"You called yourself pretty expensive in life and charging more extensively when it came to unmentionable people. So I'm asking, what did you do in life?" Genevieve's tiresome eyes scarcely creak open, then shut just as slow.

"Musician." Genevieve groggily replies.

Death's lips part behind his disguise to ask more, but the sound of multiple legs crawling along the wall before them has him keep his questions to himself. Eight heavy, sharp legs crawl frantically along the ancient catacombs, heavy rocks falling, failing to hold up the great weight of the tarantula's abdomen. Genevieve snaps awake at the sound of it's warning shriek that vibrates the thin cliffs, causing them to slightly crumble. Death finds a slot in the wall where a skeleton lay in memorial undisturbed. He drags it out of it's spot with his foot and kicks it, bones messily splaying across the ground, it's insignificant remains falling off the cliff. Death places Genevieve in the now vacant plot. Death swiftly turns to the Dead Lords, quietly eager for their next order. "Both of you are to guard and care for this girl until my return."

"Yes, my Lord," They bow and agree in a mirror image of each other.

"Where you goin'?" Genevieve's head peeps out of the catacomb watching the executioner follow the giant spider's path. Fingertips holding the end of the shallow ceiling as she wonders.

"I must take care of an arachnid problem." He retorts gruelingly, "But not to worry, mere mortal, you will know if I'm dead. For the Dead Lords will no longer be under my control, and will probably kill you." Genevieve gulps looking at the two, still kneeling before their master even after his leave. Phariseer's grip on his ax tightening at Death's truth. Hopefully it was not a promise. Genevieve still relaxes herself enough to drift into her mind and slumber in the cramped and disturbed memorial.

* * *

Genevieve's eyes slowly open in a half slumbering state, hearing the faint sound of screeching that no human could make, being swiftly snuffed out with a thud and vibration of heavy steel. Finally ending with the sound of cackling flames and she indulges into the smell of smoke and newborn embers.

"Smells good. . ." She murmurs, her conscience returns into the black of her thoughts once again.

* * *

"Arise, human." Judicater orders. Genevieve groans but complies. Her eyes crack open in the smallest slits, then practically bulge out of her skull in an instant.

She crawls from the narrow shelf in the wall and quickly sits up, _"Hello, beautiful!_" Complimenting a familiar green bottle of foulness that she desperately wishes to know the street name for. A cinnamon- cream hand swipes it and turns the cap in one move. Cocking her head back a to take big swig of the miracle potion as if it were vodka. Her head shakes and she smiles from the dissipation of pain on her frostbitten leg. Her stomach then makes itself known once again with another growl, she is still hungry.

A large, overly flambeed beetle shived with a burnt stick through it's guts protrudes from the ground next to where the bottle stood. It looks disgusting, the bug's once purple complexion is entirely black and shriveling. She looked up to the two corpses holding their earlier positions like statues. As if they never went and got this meal for her. "Thank you." She smiles softly, the two fail to answer. They merely kneel, facing the small fire erected from old wooden armor and torches. "At least this means Death didn't off himself out there." Genevieve says in her mind as she pulls the one piece bug -kebab out of the ground.

"I don't understand," She admits to the soldiers, "I know I've kicked the bucket and I've accepted that." Fingernails dig in between the exoskeleton of the insect, "If anything, I embraced my death when it came." She exposes the jelly- like meat hidden inside. The corpse's face twists as her stomach contorts with disgust, but her finger scoops out a small glob. "So why am I not like you? Or one of those floaty souls?"

"We are not here to answer your inquires." Judicater says without feeling, "Our lord only ordered us to tend to your well being, nothing more."

"But-"

"Nothing more."Phariseer stresses.

She frowns solemnly, taking the pulp into her mouth. She hums with a grin from the taste of sweet, fatty steak layering over her tongue. Quickly gulping down the rest of the warm meat inside until only a licked clean shell remains.

". . . Thanks again." The stuffed girl acknowledges to the rigor mortised statues. She retreats back into her slot in the stone wall, using her forearm as a pillow. She pulls her cat- ear- embroidered hood over her eyes and quickly falls back asleep.

* * *

"My Lord, you have returned." Phariseer bows respectively along with his fellow Dead Lord.

"Was that not what you were expecting?" Death asks. "How is the girl?"

"She is fed and her wounds have been attended to as well." Judicater reports.

"Good."

". . . Permission to advise, my lord."

"Permission granted." Death allows, Phariseer fumbles through his words, "This girl you have taken under your wing, you do not plan on bringing this woman onto the Eternal Throne, are you?"

"**I do. **Your king must hold some knowledge of why this girl didn't reach The Well of Souls. Why?" Death's tone lowers, **"Do you question my strategies, mercenary?"**

"I would never muse of such treason, My Lord," Phariseer bows passively, Judicater helps support his brother in arms, "My brother only asks of this for the girl had never passed through the Lord of Bones'es suffering. It will not sit well with the other souls on the Eternal Throne. They will grow... Jealous."

"What do you mean, _**jealous**_?" Death's eyes squint at his final word.

"This mortal may be as destroyed as we, but she does not have the scars that we bear openly." Phariseer looks down to the slumbering girl. "I even hold some sort of hatred for the human."

"Is there anything else that I may know about?"

"Yes, Master." Judicater answers. The three hear muffled sobs and whining and look down to the lanky dead girl, overcome by the nightmares that visibly torture her. She shivers in a layer of cold sweat. Her shut eyes twitch from the horrifying illusions they believe to perceive, making enough tears to make a two inch puddle in front of her tightening face. Her voice cracking from the sobs laced in her pleas.

"The girl experiences torment in her slumber." Judicater says.

"Why are you doing this . . ? You're hurting me." She weeps softly in her sleep. "Stop. . ."

The Reaper sighs and picks up the girl from her resting place and holds her like a sleeping child in his arms. With arms draped over his shoulders and her hood pressing lightly against his cheek. She dampens the executioner's neck with bitter tears as they walk to the tomb's exit.

"Please. . . Just let me go home."

I just want to go home. . .

* * *

**_*Sigh* So it appears that its 100 degrees out, I am ill, and my boyfriend is away in Cape Cod all during the entire time of my week suspension from my job._**

**_So you know what that means kids?_**

**_BEDRIDDEN WRITING TIME._**

**_YEHHHH *kef* *kef*_**

**_So I'm going to be writing ALLOT more than initially planned._**

**_Once again feel free to tell me your lovely (or shitty) thoughts or feelings._**

**_Or don't._**

**_I aint your mamma._**

_**~Lexi**_


	7. Underneath the Hood

"Holy freakin' hell!" Genevieve gapes with her head cocking back to the clouds. Her gray ash coated arm points at the two colossal serpents that wrap tightly about the two pillars between the entrance of the floating ship. Loud hissing seeping between their hundreds of decaying, sharp teeth. Drool dropping from their fifty- story tall heads descend by the bucket-fulls to the ancient wood floors. Their milky white eyes staring hungrily at the new meat that has just freshly set themselves before them to come aboard.

"Name the store, I will get myself one of these. I swear it."

"I don't believe that you could handle such a beast as a pet." Death doubts as he helps her off his glowing horse, being wary of the green fog about it's legs. He says planting her on the ground, "Plus, leviathans are not purchased, they are caught."

"Have you ever caught one, Death?"

He reaps the opportunity to boast, "No, never caught one, I did however remove one from it's tongue for a demon merchant once." Genevieve has a look of disgust on her open mouth and bares astonishment in her dilating eyes.

"Tell me the story." She sweetly demands.

"Another time," The Nephilim rider tugs Genevieve's hood over her eyes, her big smile deflates. "What you need to focus on as of late is keeping your head down, do you follow me?" She raises one side of her hood to show one eye. "Why?"

Death pauses, thinking over the Dead Lord's advice, then finally replies, "I would prefer not to find out and I'm sure you would feel the same."

Genevieve cocks an eyebrow that is quickly covered by Death tugging her hood down once again with more aggression. The purple enchantment hold their palms on the fortress doors. "Stay behind me." He reminds, "Don't make eye contact. Don't speak if spoken to. I shall do that for you." The spell presses the fortress entrance ajar. Revealing the shanty yet vast deck of the Eternal Throne.

They begin to walk, cool and collectively in each stride. Genevieve is more cautious, walking slow and silently behind the Grim Reaper, as if she were to make a small creek on the brittle wood, the entire guard would be after her. Her head faces her boots with eyes zipping in all directions. Recalling her bodyguard's assertive instruction, the disguised woman still peeps through her hood ever so slightly to peer at her new surroundings. There aren't as many of the dead as Death had emphasized and it made it all the more nerve racking. Less people in the courtyard means less people to blend into. Which in alternate words, meant she stuck out like a sore thumb with no place to hide in the plain gray daylight. Thankfully, most of the ghouls are huddling in a circle in the center of the area, testing their fighting skills on one another while others evaluate from the sidelines in silence. Genevieve does feel the stares of the guards along the rims of the courtyard, gawking at the unfamiliar and dim frame sticking so close to someone known to be so infamous on the ship.

The travelers are more than half way through the deck. Almost to the cracked stone staircase that held the Dead King's throne at their top. Death's pace started moving slightly faster, eager to find some sort of answer to this obnoxious twenty-two year old under his wing. Genevieve's pace quickens as well and has to gawkily power walk to catch up to Death, she merely wants to be out of this kill-box as much as he does.

"Horseman!" A hooded, heavily armed ghoul calls out to Death. The human jolts from the sudden call, her eyes squeeze shut and she hisses a near silent curse through her gritting teeth. Death, handling the situation, merely sighs and turns to the source of his calling. "Draven." He acknowledges.

Draven, an experienced swordsman trapped under the rule of The Lord of Bones. His many swords and daggers decorating his belt and stabbed into his back clank and jingle loudly as he jogs to the Nephilim. His hood and green aura flowing in his trail.

"I offer you and your scythe to take part in the arena." The mummified Master of Blades proposes. "We are holding a battle among the other warriors that wish to try you in combat. I will bestow a promising prize for the champion."

"My thanks for the offer," Death denies turning his back so that he may reach to his destination, "But perhaps some other point in time, I have more important matters to attend to."

"Very well." Draven frowns at the answer. Then glances down to the small frame following coolly behind the being much greater than her. His eyes narrow, attempting to make out if she is angel or demon, if she were a girl or a boy. He notices the cat ears on her head, the mismatched armor and her gangly discolored arms from the overpacking layers of dirt and ash. Pieces of dried, once molten rock still stick across her forearm and near her shoulder and could be mistaken for scales. Thankfully enough, Draven cannot see her face from her avoidance of his glance as if she were greatly ashamed of her looks.

"Might I ask of the demon child nestling behind you as if you were it's mother?" Death stops abruptly and looks over his shoulder grimacing with his fists tightening at his sides, ready to rip the sword out of Draven's back and slice him until he were a powdery mess of ancient entrails. But, the Reaper of Souls persuades himself to do so later, he wishes not to make a scene at the moment. Instead, he raises a fist at the corpse, his forefinger outstretches.

"Mind your tongue, bladesman," He warns gravely, "Though, if you so wish to pry at something that is not of your concern, I will tell you that it is the business I must attend to, now I advise you leave me to it." He throws down his arm, "For your sake." Death turns from him in the opposite direction to the staircase to the King's throne. Draven remains, his suspicions itching at him as he glares at the small vagrant following Death like an imprinted baby bird. He finally shrugs off his intuition, returning to his comrades fighting in the small ring.

"That creature could not possibly be human." He concludes as he resumes watching the battle of his fellow dead ensue in the small ring.

They continue to the steps only thirty feet north of them. The cloaked human leans slightly over to the Kinslayer, "'We in the clear yet, Skullface?" Before Death could answer no, an ancient, husky voice makes himself known.

"In a hurry I presume, Horseman?" The smell of an herbal aroma similar to burning tobacco tantalizes Genevieve's nostrils that make her eyes rise forward. Guiding her to look to the large engraved pipe hanging off a wrinkled goat's face. The great manlike beast towering on the side of the steps ahead. The bearded goat holds a four foot long woolly beard with a hunched over yet tall human like body. His heavy robes are tied with crystals, bottles, furs, and many other wares down to his two feet. It is obvious that he is quite the traveler. His glowing toad's eyes along with the contents of his pipe glow brightly into his petite person of interest.

"Now is not the time, Old One." Death dismisses, avoiding eye contact. "Why must the whole ship bother with me at this very moment?" He growls under his breath, trying to make to the stairs in peace with Genevieve trustingly at his right side.

"Of course Horseman, I understand," The olden goat says to the less distant individuals, "But I may have wares that hold concern to your fellow traveler." Genevieve's eyes raise, her curiosity heightened under the shadows of her hood which Death tugs down once again, this time grabbing some of the hair at her scalp. She tries to snuff out a growl with her shut lips, now reminded of his instructions. At the point of passing the old being, their bodies opposite of each other, yet close enough to hear a raspy murmur.

"Your _human_ traveler, if I infer correctly." Death stops momentarily with his eyes thin and fiery, but he continues past him in any case.

"We are not interested." He flatly spurns without passing a glance, beginning to climb the curving stairs, he wanted to be out of plain sight before anyone else turns wise of the human girl. But she on the other hand, had her full attention peaked, high enough to pull herself from the pale warrior and run back down the stairs. She stops in front of the goat looking over her, grinning as he takes a large breath of smoke from his pipe.

"What do you have for me?" She questions curiously, "And it better be some important 'concern.' Don't waste my time, goat man."

Ostegoth chuckles, smoke puffing from his mouth and snout as he speaks, "I am never one to waste time, young child." His wrinkled claws disappear into his petticoat. "I had purchased this eons ago from a strange, dark creature. He told me to hold it for someone who would fit such a small uniform, a child from a kingdom unknown to the other two. For she will pay the highest price. I don't know what he exactly meant by that," He pulls out a large U.S. Army survival backpack, it looks to be from her time so it is old, but looks to have kept it's sturdiness. It's covered in faded digital camo, large pockets and even had a canteen clipped to the side. Genevieve's hand reaches for the bag, which is pulled up from her before she could get a grasp.

"Unless he predicted that you _have_ the sufficient currency." The soul frowns, feeling the only thing in her jacket's right pocket, the meager glit pieces she had taken from earlier. Then a shadow comes over her face and she looks up, a familiar bone encrusted gauntlet presents two large green relics to Ostegoth. Who smiles as he takes in another breath of smoke. "A fair trade," He takes the stone emblems with one hand and hands over the bag in the other by the handle. Genevieve takes the pack and puts in on, Before she has a time to say thank you, Death is nearly halfway up the staircase.

"How did you know I'm well... Human?" Genevieve asks soft and awkwardly, she's not used to having to refer to herself as a species. "I am an old merchant, I have years and years of wisdom underneath my belt when it comes to presuming my clients." Ostegoth takes another hit from his pipe, and gets down to the girl's five foot nine level. "Not much gets past me these years." His nostrils exhale a thick white cloud of smoke In her face. She makes a quick thought, "And another thing..." she pulls out her three coins, raising it up to the end of the goat's pipe. "How much of that stuff you're smokin' will this get me?"

Ostegoth pinches the coins and reaches into another pocket, pulling out a puny sack about the size of her coins with string tying it shut. As soon as she clenches it in her palm, the mitt that paid the merchant now grabs her by the handle at the top of her bag. She lets out a small yipe as Death literally drags her up the stairs. Ostegoth guffaws a gravelly laugh, "It has been a pleasure doing business with you both!"

* * *

"You are the only one allowed beyond this point, reaper." Death turns around to the Chancellor in his usual stance. Floating with his nonexistent nose in the air with his hands cupping each other at his abdomen.

"I cannot have her just standing out here alone." Death reasons. The servant's attention is caught at the word, "Her? Well then that is a shame for you, horseman. You will simply have to go inside without your pet and hope she is not smited." Death looks down to Genevieve, looking up to him gingerly. "Perhaps you could make an exception due to her condition." Death softly pushes her forward, motioning to stand before the King's loyal servant. She obliges and the Chancellor raises an eyebrow, but he bends to get at the girl's eye level. He raises her hood, revealing her fearful yet fair looks.

Genevieve wears a heart shaped face of both fear and confusion, mainly fear. Her slightly rounded eyes gleaming wide from the nervousness. The dim, dark blue is a perfect contrast from the glimmering shaved gold lines about her irises that pierce brightly even under the shadows of the hood. Her skin pale from the lack of sun it hasn't seen in at least a century make her lightly parted lips appear rosier as they adorably tremble. A golden red curl had pulled free from Death's tug on her hair and now flows softly on the right side of Genevieve's small, dotted nose. She does have purple shadows under her eyes and too many freckles on her nose and body, but the Chancellor doesn't seem to mind. A big, wicked grin that could reach his ear lobes told the girl he didn't. The look is relative to a child staring into a candy shop window. But the look is on a grown man instead, so it is more perverse and much less desirable to the young woman being stared down. Genevieve knows that gawk all too well and hates that she does, but she sweetens the deal even farther, by revealing the glass skull about her neck as well. The King's servant rises to the Kinslayer.

"Send her in." He agrees. Genevieve sighs, relieved to be away from the decomposing stranger. The great doors open slowly for their passage. The two finding their way in. Genevieve's heart slightly dropping when the second in command chuckles softly enough for only her to listen. "My King will take very kindly to you."


	8. Ways of an Undead Tyrant

_**Hi loves :D So I put TONS of work into these next couple of chapters for you! Lots of stuff going on including suspenseful situations, changes of thought (and heart.) Plus and a bunch of brutal dismemberment ( I mean come on, you could ALWAYS use more of that). But all in all, things will begin to change.**_

_**Hope you like it.**_

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The throne room is windowless with only light resonating dimly from malformed candles in the sides of the walls, it becomes brighter when the Three Dead Lords arise for the engravings in the stone. Genevieve's eyes are now able to see the smooth yet dusty stone trail in front of her. Outstretching a few meters and ends at a throne that a regal corpse sinks into comfortably.

The Lord of Bones has an aura much like the sorts surrounding his subjects. He cloths rusted armor rimmed with the protruding skeletons that once belonged to a great beast from times long past. A white, wiry beard is the only remainder of hair on his mummified body. His creased skin layered tight over his skeleton face in a look of hatred and a need to bring agony to all who roam his domain.

"My King, what would you have us do?" The three Dead Lords, kneel before their reunited king whom booms their final order,

"**SUFFER."** In an instant, the ghouls catch fire and they wail in their pain. Genevieve cries out at their deaths so sudden and vain, tears swelling above her trembling lower lashes. "Too long you have slumbered, too long you have forsaken your duty. I HAVE NO MORE USE FOR YOU!" The three once great soldiers disintegrate to smoldering green ash at a wave of an elderly clawed hand, they disappear from existence. Genevieve grieves for Phariseer and Judicater. They didn't care much for her, but they meant something. They cared for her when she couldn't take care for herself. She didn't know many people in life who would show her the same kindness.

"Oh?" The Dead King coos, having spotted the girl mourning softly in the shadows. "And who is she?"

"A soul I had found in the Judicater's tomb." Death asserts, agitated that his hard work for the King had set on fire. "I infer that you may have experience with strange dead such as her. If you are aware of what she is exactly."

"I may," The King answers almost gingerly, stroking his beard."She does not resemble a subject of my domain." He points his attention towards Genevieve. "But I shall humor you, only because she has captured my curiosity. Come forward, dear child." His bony fingers gesturing her forward. "Let me have a sense of you."

"Don't you dare come at me you monster!" She sobs underneath the shade of her hood, "Your guys show nothing but loyalty to you and just off them! You're insane!"

"The insane are always the ones who gain the most force, dear." The Soul Keeper grins with eyes still flaring. "You and your kingdom was once familiar with such ways of tyrannic power. Now, **come here.**" He beckons once again with a touch of his sorcery, causing jade green smoke to emerge at the King's will. Emaciated hands come forth from the fog and clench whatever on her their ironically strong fingers can reach. Hands grab tight to her chain mail, hair, neck, backpack, extremities, and her chest. She shrieks as they tug her violently across the ground and up the staircase to their master. Her screaming cuts short to a whimper as the Lord of Bones catches her by the chin, pulling her up to stand at his level as he remained on his trusty throne. His free hand pushes back her hood and stares into her in astonishment. His neck leans in, their faces inches apart.

"You, my dear, are most peculiar." He says, feigning sweetness, "You resemble the living yet," His voice turns scornful as he spits at the Reaper, "She reeks of you, horseman." His free hand wanders underneath the chain mail and fabric. "Don't touch me." Genevieve grumbles. The deathly king ignores her order, his nails lightly claw and his prints scratch like sandpaper on her skin.

"**Don't touch me!" **She barks, pushing and scratching at his forearm, scarcely getting his hand off her torso.

He touches something that singes his fingertips underneath her jacket, his hand slightly jolts back and he finally recedes from the soiled cotton. Only to dip back into the top and pulling out the gem hidden underneath. "The Sun Amulet" His eyes widen at the smoke from his burning hand. He drops the crystal to prevent burning further, "After years of searching..."

"What is this?" Death intervenes, "She isn't something to be toyed with and you would be wise to know that neither am I!"

"They failed me," The Lord of Bones refers to his late Dead Lords as he watches Genevieve squirm in his grasp. Her nails digging and clawing at his hand, ripping the flaky, brittle skin that the King lost feeling in long ago. He turns to Death, "But you have earned my gratitude, I will send you to one in my kingdom who knows the way to the Well of Souls. As for this soul however, she will remain here, with me." Her hands fall to her sides. It's no use, she can't break free from the centuries of rigor mortise dealt on the ancient ruler's bones.

"She will do no such thing!" Death objects fiercely, "I have unfinished business with her."

"What business? I implore that it is professional." The King scoffs, "Is it for the weapon she equips? You cannot have it for it already belongs to me." He speaks of the presumed ownership as if it is well known fact. The reaper withdraws his twin scythes, pointing his left at the ruler's rusting crown.

"That amulet has no owner and you know it, Bone King. Now stop wasting time and return them both to me." Pulling his twin scythes behind him, he bends his knees and bows his torso into a fighting stance, "Now."

The king's free skeletal hand pounds hard on his throne with enough force to tremor the entire room."YOU ARE IN NO POSITION TO COMMAND ME, KINSLAYER!" He recedes back into his chair, the green flames calm momentarily in his eyes. His grip remains constricted on his captor's jaw, feeling the bone about to snap in two. She whimpers from the tightening pain, the King chuckling soft at the velvety smooth weep in his ears. It calms him.

"This woman and the amulet were found in my domain. Therefore, as I am it's ruler, my law extends over them both." The King glances down at Death's amulet embedded into his pectoral, "There is great power bound in that amulet. As the one around her **breakable** little neck." He shakes her quickly and violently, her small shriek lulls him again. "But unlike her, your shame stays it's unlocking."

"I regret nothing!" Death snarls in defense.

"I can see beyond your flesh," Lifeless white eyes begin to smoke as he calls upon his power once again. "To where the true battle wages." Death roars in pain, holding his head tight, feeling as if his skull is about to explode into a pulpy red and pink mess to color the walls. He turns blank in his face and his motions. Falling to his knees and his chest falls over, hitting the ground mask first.

"Death!" Genevieve cries out, she attempts to shake herself from her captor who tugs her hard back onto his lap. "If you kill him, I swear to God I will-"

"You'll do _what_?" He growls, baring his dwindled teeth, pushing her reddening cheeks together. "He is fine, child. Do not fret." He releases her jaw, a long, reddish purple spot remains along her jawline. His hands grip the old chain mail and rips it through the middle as if it were no stronger than cotton. Broken steel rings explode from the tear and roll loudly across the stone. Some clinking against the Reaper's lifeless mask, it does nothing to wake him.

"He merely could not handle my power. But he will travel to his destination momentarily. But never mind that...Be still." Genevieve keeps her eyes shut, denying this foul creature a look in the eyes. "I told you not to touch me." She mumbles under her breath. The King is once again deaf to her warning and instead cups a bruised cheek. "You know you really are intriguing. " He purrs to her, "Your past and your conscience is black as darkness yet... Your soul and body. . . It overspills with purity."

"Death, wake up."

Decayed teeth shush his tearing damsel. "He cannot hear you, Dear."

"Death get up! Please!"

"It won't matter, your paths will never cross again." He grins, basking in her sudden flowing tears, dropping from the thought. "When he is transported, you will stay with me and if you behave, your new home will not be difficult." His right hand clench the back of her neck tightly. "I promise you." She whimpers, baring her teeth in the darkness behind her eyelids. She screams when crusty chapped lips dare to contact hers, a softened scream is heard and a piercing roar follows.

In the darkness of her sights, the pawn cried out. As she feels her breath pass, breath grow smoldering hot and a gleam of light bright enough to see behind her taut shut lids. Blue eyes open to the Lord of The Dead's pained face. The left side of his mouth and part of his his tongue and had been burned black. Pieces of dried flesh breaking off like thin bark and cinders glimmer as he thunders. The remaining teeth on that side are now black and melting from the sudden heat. He reopens his jade fuming eyes with a furious look at the woman on his lap.

"You... You useless_ whore!_" A inhumanly strong backhand sends her flying off his lap. As she's midair, she catches Death lying lifelessly on the ground, her attempts had been useless.

"He's dead." She lands onto the ground chin first on the pavement and with back arched almost too far than it was designed to bend. Her throat quickly scraping against the abrasive stone as the rest of her body hit the ground on her stomach and she rolls several feet. Disoriented, her head rises stiffly to the angered powerful spirit, ready to kill her as if she were one of his late Dead Lords.

"I shall banish you to the ninth level of Hell for this-" His anger fades as an idea blossoms suddenly in his grievous mind. A mischievous and dreadful grin taking over the unburned part of his face.

"No." He says disturbingly calmer. "You do not deserve a fate so honorable." Genevieve sees a green glow growing from behind her. Before she could turn to investigate, two guards that serve to protect the throne room's entrance scoop her roughly from the ground by her aggrieving arms. The King grins, receding back into his seat with knuckles supporting his jaw. He orders, "Introduce her to her fallen brethren residing in the courtyard." His sights lull to Genevieve whom has difficulty freeing herself from stone like grasps of the corpses. "I shall have you collected when I feel that you are broken enough." He waves his other hand, dismissing them. The two turn, dragging the girl between them along the floor. Her yells, pleading to awake the grim reaper helplessly out cold on the stone. The King smiles through his pain as he watches the three make their leave. Reaper remaining motionless as the screams enter the courtyard.

The guards do not have enough respect for her to drag her down the stairs on her scraped knees. They find throwing her over the balcony more fitting. The Chancellor politely steps west of the guard who then hold her over the Gothic, rusted railing. She screams with her legs kicking the air, causing challengers in the battle nearby to raise their heads to the strange noise.

"Is... Is that what I think it is?" The winning of the two competitors inquires, lowering his sword.

"It cannot be." A spectator disbelieves.

Draven pushes the through the now crowding undead mercs out of the way to get a better look. Fury infecting what is left of his being.

"I knew it. It's a damned human!" He growls.

The Chancellor smiles at the growing riot closing in, then at Genevieve, who stares down the two story drop, breathing hard from the fear of what pains will welcome when gravity pulls her to hell.

"Make merry, beauteous corpse." He nods the signal to the guards.

She is released, having been thrown to endure the distant fall. Her skull hits the ground hard enough to almost loose conciseness, her eyes go black, feeling a warmth drenching thick in the back of her hair. In the darkness, her ears prick at the sound of something similar to an angry mob. They grow closer the longer they endure.

"All of the Third Kingdom is deceased! Why is she not like us?!"

"We endured the King's suffering as did everyone else! What makes her any different!?"

"I know a solution, men..."

She snaps back into consciousness when she's pulled up by her sweater. Plated knuckles digging deep into the center of her chest as she's pinned to the wall. Her eyes flicker and resharpen. Fearful wide eyes reacquaint with the bladesman's clouded blue.

"...Why not give her the tortures ourselves?" He offers gravely, sporting a skully, mischievous grin as his free hand withdraws one of the many daggers on his belt.

"L-look guys, I don't want no trouble. Just-" Genevieve is hushed when the sharp point of the cutlass puncturing her left cheek.

"You wanted trouble as soon as you set foot onto this ship!" A ghost next to Draven calls out.

"How dare you come here unscathed while we are forced to experience pain and suffering for eternity!?" Another barks venomously from the back of the mob.

"How the fuck was I supposed to know I was supposed to be like you!?" Genevieve bites back at the crowd, "It's not like I chose to skip the tortures! Hell, It wasn't even my idea to wind up here when I passed!"

"Neither was it ours." Draven growls low at Genevieve's shuddering face. Her cheek stings from the blade, the warmth of her blood trails down her neck. "Yet, here we are."

"Break her Draven!" One of them urges. The rest of the soldiers partake, "Make her feel the pain only known to the Underworld!"

"Break all her extremities!"

"Slowly!"

"Cut out her entrails and feed them to the Leviathans!"

"And make her watch!"

"Remove her face and stitch back on upside down!"

"We shall get to that!" Draven interrupts. "But first..." He turns back to the woman on the wall, looking as if she's about to vomit. Disgusted by their creativity in murder and they were only throwing in ideas! "Lets make rid of her eyes, firstly." He moves the dagger from the slit on her cheek to above her sweating right eyebrow. "We want to surprise you to whats approaching first." At an excruciatingly slow pace, the dagger trails down.

"Please don't do this!" She panicking pleas, surprised her mouth can still make words through the soaring pain. She starts clawing out at the crowd only inches from her grasp. They take it upon themselves to hold her spasmodic arms and legs in place."S-stop! STOP!" The blade cuts her reddening eyebrow in half and enters the hollow of her crease.

"How does it feel?" Draven taunts as his armed hand lowers, "Does this pain you!? Do not worry, after we are finished with you, you will be rid of such inconveniences!" The blade enters the top of her eyelid."Just like we were."

She screeches even louder, jeers bubbling from the dead holding her palpitating limbs. The blade enters her pupil and Genevieve's right side goes bleak and she feels the stinging pop of the fragile, jellied organ. The ghouls laugh as clear liquid and blood run together and flow profusely from the split.

The bloodcurdling cry echoes, bouncing disturbingly off the throne room halls. The ruler sighs with utmost content on his post, lulling into a slumber. As if the torturous shrills for help are like easy listening playing softly in the distance.

"No," He mumbles, "Still not broken enough."


	9. Destruction in Her Honor

_**Sorry people, it's been a while. I explained myself in the reviews.**_

_**Here's a fat juicy chapter as a token of my apologies. Bye me loves!**_

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Black covers Death's conscience as he is set in a nearly catatonic state from the King's spell. His head pounding so hard, he can feel vital veins about his skull shy of bursting under his skin. His ears are almost deaf with a heavy ringing screeching into his eardrums. He feels horrible, as if a grenade exploded point blank at the back of his cranium. He wants to bring his hands to his temples but his body has no response. Instead, the slits in his eyes slightly open to someone politely calling out his name.

"Pardon me, Mr. Reaper?" An old rasped voice carrying strange politeness in his tone, "I am afraid that the time of slumbering is over." He coos at him as if he is speaking to an angelic two year old. Death says nothing, his eyes creak shut as he recedes from reality. Only then does the old creatures voice shift for the worst. "Wake up you slothful oaf!" A change in the wind brushes across his bone mask from the raise of a hand. On instinct, he grabs the daring claws.

"Don't." The horseman growls, but it sounds more like a yawn if anything. His attacker scoffs at him, his withering and raspy guffaw more fearsome than the poor intimidation attempt. Death's eyes groggily creek open and resharpen and the ring's volume lowers tenuously. Gaining a slight focus on the black claws outstretching on a gray, wrinkly hand, a metal mask reflecting unwanted candlelight in his amber corneas. Very small, milky green eyes surrounded by eerie black shadows cast from a noire black and blooming red hood. It flourishes over the ruptured skin on his face as he floated in midair. His body parallel to the ground as if he is floating in water rather than flying.

"Welcome to the land of the living, horseman," The broken skin siding his mask wrinkle upward, "Or in this instance, The Land of the Dead." His laugh is dry and so proud to make such a perfect pun on the spot. Death's stoic look disagrees and snuffs out the ghost's felicity.

"I don't have time to squander with your dry humor." Death grumbles softly. Noticing the King of the Dead sitting in his Throne alert and staring at him strangely, "Where is the girl?"

"Has my spell brought you to madness, Horseman?" The King inquires jokingly, in contrast to the pain he still feels from the burn. Death looks back at the smug aberration who phases his hand out of his grasp. His pale hand only clenching greenish black smoke the creature's appendage left behind.

"Act as if I cease to exist." His eyes crinkle as his grin perks again.

The rider returns to the King as he continues, taking the order to ignore the apparently invisible shade looming west of him.

"I haven't uttered a word." The ruler defends brightly with his bony fingers to his ribcage, then reach out slightly to the throne room's doors. "I do not wish to spoil the beautiful sound of my bespoken outside." The ringing stops and Genevieve's screaming sharpens. Death recollected his thoughts in an instant and recalls the bits and pieces of what occurred. "Have you ever heeded more splendid wonders?"

Death snaps at him, attempting climb back onto his knees, "I fear that we have different tastes on the subject you foul-!" He comes crashing down out of weakness. Atrocious, blood drenched screams mix with the laughs of the dead men creating them. It brings him to climb back up again only to fail once more, amusing the King who partakes in the laughter with his subjects outside. He wishes desperately to get back on his feet and rip the King to pieces, to tear whatever parts of him that dared to graze Genevieve's skin. But there is no time, and the hooded illusion reminds him of that.

"I surely hope you plan on protecting your prize, Reaper." The bleak olden ghost's holds his neck over the charcoal haired nephilim's shoulder, levitating too close for comfort.

"Why have you come to me, specter?" Death asks weakly under the laughs and screams.

"Fear not, I have not come in bad tastes."

"I don't fear." Death growls.

The black claws rest on his tattooed shoulder. Black veins flourish about his skin like quickly growing weeds. "Fearless or not, I only wish to aid you." Death desires to break his face in with his armored fists and _then_ ask of his motives, but he feels his power greatly returning. He allows him to continue with his blackening spell.

"Or are you going to remain here like a useless prick and live up to your given slothful name?"

* * *

The thirty foot doors explode ajar in an explosion of purple smoke and death. Crushing the two guards on both sides like flyswatters on two meager flies. Their bones crushing to pieces, but they still remain conscious so they may linger in their pain.

"What in the nine hells!?" A deceased patron amongst the angry mob exclaims. The group's eyes part their attention from their captor and up to the skyline of plum fog. The line closing into their position like a heat seeking missile. A purple hooded phantom and his scythe crash to the ground, creating a mushroom explosion of smoke that momentarily blinds the group. Barely having time to look at the true form of the Grim Reaper himself.

Bone, amulets, impaled skulls, tattered shrouds and armor are all that clothe Death's winged dark figure. His entire being is bare of any muscle or skin. His two larger skinless hands bear a razor sharp scythe twice his size covered with skulls that glow disturbingly green at the eyes. His face is entirely shrouded with a near destroyed hood that looks to have seen eons of combat. His eyes invisible underneath the shroud, but still hold a deathly stare at the barbarous victims before him.

"Finally!" A younger of the opponents pushes through his brethren, running to the towering slayer of kin.

"A time to test our skill on the Grim Reaper himself!" Another joins. They charge into battle with swords unsheathed and upright towards their combatant. Whom, quite easily, swipes harvester at them once, twisting his body in one long stride. The weapon taking their torsos from the rest of their bodies to the walls fifteen yards away. Their bones shattering under the impact.

The rest of the ghouls let go of their captor who crumbles to the floor and she holds her now even paler face in her hands. The undead circle about Death, assuming a strategic standing with their eyes never leaving the center.

His eyes scan about the ellipse of ghouls, catching a glance at the girl huddling alone underneath the crumbling balcony. Time slows as he takes in every bruise, cut and tear done unto her body when he fell unconscious. Her shaking wrists are purple with the finger shaped bruises with red streams flowing sulkily over them. Her once pure white jacket now tattered and layered red down her bare chest, coating the amulet in fresh droplets from the raw flesh on her throat. The streams of red conjoining as they trail down to a puddle gradually collecting about her kneeling legs. Her hands are layered with fluid due to sufficing them as deficient dams to slow the everflowing blood from her ruptured eye. The conserves of her afterlife dwindling making her skin sickly pale. Her unharmed, sharply tensing eye finally opens and sparks eye contact with the night blue hood peering at her intently. She shrills softly and presses her hands into her face once again, pushing her body into the stone wall as if she'd disappear into it if she pressed hard enough.

She looks so broken, so lost and Death never knew anything such as this could induce so much fury in him. Being even more so when he suddenly feels a small twinge of a blade at his back. Flickering his focus back into the battle at hand. Focusing on the ghouls that may feel the wrath of his anger.

His first victim is the ghoul whom thought it wise to drive a blade into the Grim Reaper's back. A skeleton hand snatches the head of the merc and dunks him into the deck on it's back, shattering the spine. He pulls north and bares down his scythe on a the helmet of a large ghoul who's body crushes down to a pile of pulverized guts underneath the blade, a small wave of bone dust flows from the impact. He swings to his left, taking one by his neck and another by the legs with a loud crack of the old steel armor and bone. He slices and breaks through the final few remaining bodies in less than five swings, crippling all until only one remains standing. After cracking the second to last's skull in his corpse fingers he turns to the entrance of the Eternal Throne as if to admire the carnage.

The courtyard's air is thick with yellowed bone dust and the wails of anguish. The moans rising from the broken jaws of the undead spread across the splintered planks and leaning on the cracked stone. Their bones broken and once vital organs gutted and splaying along the ground so they are unable to talk let alone stand. All that they may do is remain alive so they may linger in their torture. For Death would not give them their demise this day. He believes that they are not deemed worthy of such graces.

Draven is all that remains in the center of the battleground. His daggers bare at his wrapped palms and his skull grin visible from the few yards distance from the winged, heavier looking form.

"Death, I did not intend for it to come to this, but you must understand." He reasons but there is no answer from the cloak floating to the final corpse, the grip in Harvester tightening farther. The blade master assumes an agile warrior's stance with his legs apart and daggers pointing forward, "That dirty little vagrant deserved what was coming to her. I gave her the mark upon her eye to remind her of that!"

With the looming Grim Reaper a mere few feet away, Draven's voice calms as he recollects himself. "I am no coward, horseman. I do not back away from a duel. So you may enact upon your anger in battle if you so choose." The daggers swing across the air in a swift flourish as his valiance meant nothing to the hooded skeleton he swings at.

The knife wielding wrist is caught in the clawed grasp tight enough for the bones in Draven's joints to bend and rub together. The brittle structures finally snap, causing the dagger to release and the dead swordsman to let out an aggrieving roar. He swings his other dagger at greater combatant, but Harvester's hard steel backing strikes across his head before the blade could grow near. He hits the ground hard on his side. Before he could think of resuming his stance, The two handed sword driven into his shoulder blade is ripped roughly from the slit in with one heavy jerk that pulled him slightly off the floorboards. There is the littlest flicker of relief as Draven roughly lands on his back with arms spread, having been unable to do so in centuries.

The death bringer pins the hooded deceased with the hand that recently snapped his wrist to pieces. He raises the wide edge of his scythe and presses in the metal blades protruding from Draven's arm, forcing it into the wood. Widening his old wounds and breaking his arm like a slowly splitting branch. The hooded corpse begins swearing curses from old that echo about the ship. "End it already you coward!" He snarls, the scythe stomps on his other arm, it bursts dryly under the pressure. Draven shouts to the silver sky, "Do not keep me from my bestowment of a warrior's demise!" His torso convulses violently as he attempts to release his shattered arms from the old broken metal bounding them to the floor to no avail. Leaving Draven to lie there as another example of his wrath among his fractured and conscious brethren scattered across the deck. For his actions, he would receive the same damnation as his brothers in arms, as enemy or tutor. Besides, Death believes he is still of some use for he still has more skills and fighting moves to learn.

The being in Reaper Form can feel his power receding, his body beginning to resume it's former state of weakness and haziness plasters his senses. The resonating smoke begins to overflow about his body which shrank in size.

"This cannot be over yet..." He contemplates, "I still have one more."

Using the last of his energy, his large, webbed skeleton wings fully spread above him and he shoots himself across the sky to the other end of the deck in one swift burst. A line of plum smoke dividing the foggy air to the North back through the double doors where the it had originated.

The great barriers explode open with an overflow of air flooding into the throne room. The sudden puff of fumes hitting the King in a wave though only his beard phases along with flakes of ruptured and/or burnt skin that break off and swim with the spiraling current of wind. The King opens his eyes and his green resonance fades back over him as his head stiffly rises from slumber. He scoffs darkly at the creature shrinking in size underneath the dying shroud of gas.

"I have never caught you to be one for entrances, Horseman." He grins with lids low, "But I fear that you have used the rest of your quality on that little trick, have you not?"

He is right, the fast travel had drained what was left in the Reaper's form. The smoke thins significantly, revealing Death making no other sound other than metal grinding against stone echoing loudly about the room. The smoke relinquishes Draven's sword from it's hold. The blunt edge grinds achingly along the stone path as Death's average form drags strangely from the cloud. "I shall take your silence as a concurrence." Still, there is no answer, not even a snarky remark from the white mask walking to him straight faced with harvester remaining at their holsters. Only wielding the two daggers in one hand and Draven's two handed sword in the other. The confident king feels it suitable to taunt the weaker looking figure drawing closer. "I fear that my fainter subjects may have overestimated you," With the withering Grim Reaper a mere few feet away, the Dead King raises a dominant glowing hand with the aforesaid fiery hue of his eyes. "You had only taken on a mere few of them and you're already weak at the-"

The hand at the verge of casting a deadly spell is stabbed through cleanly with a dagger plucked from Draven's body earlier. As it's pinned to the side of the throne, the lord growls at the pain and hurls his other hand, but a granitelike fist clocks him in the unscorched side of his jaw before the enchantment could capture a glow. As he is stunned, Death takes the small sword stabbed into his clothes when in Reaper Form. Quickly pinning the other royal hand at the edge of the armrest so deeply, that the blade reappears underneath it. "Do what you must, bastard stableman!" He booms sending broken, melted teeth airborne into Death' frightening yet unmoving features, "But know this!" His eyes glowing brightly, "I shall condemn you before you could even think of killing me!"

"No... Not kill." Death mutters disturbingly low. Strange green and black smoke smolder about the reaper's aura. Seeing this, the King's baring teeth recede back to behind his lips as a recalled grin returns.

"Whatever your intentions, they will mean nothing." The king mood shifting rather nonchalant. His head slightly upward as his eyes remain locked tight to the horseman's tensing eyes. "You will not be about long enough to conjure such attempts."

The portal to the City of the Dead is at the later stages of taking force. The portal itself still stays dormant, but at the verge of it's opening growing nearer with each minute. Death has no time to teach any grave lessons as planned. He drops the sword and it clanks loud onto the concrete, Death hastily turns his back to the throne. He wishes to make his leave so that he may take the girl from a fate he feels may be worse than himself.

Though, the king makes one grim mistake, one that will doom him for the rest of his days. That will condemn him to fate equal to his subjects who reside in his courtyard.

He underestimates the Slayer of Kin.

"But before you leave, I must thank you for gifting me your plaything, but I must confess that I did not achieve a full observation of her." Death slows his pace, rationing his next moves with his depleting time limit. The crowned leader growing even more smug and leaves a grave remark in his final words. "I impatiently await her return for me to forge on such... _Sensing_."

With one swift flourish of movements, Death shoves off any sort of regret or reason as he turns back sprinting, recollecting the sword and pulls back the stock behind the side of his head. Recalling the young woman nearly shredded to mere shambles by a dead man whom he would have called an ally. Death promises himself that he would never allow anything such as this to happen to that woman ever again. And drives in the blade to close the deal.

The laughing stops. The sword stands flat at Death's eye level as The Lord of Bones chokes painfully. His arms palpitate furiously as his wrists attempt to release themselves from the old metal bounding him to his eternal throne. Wishing to remove the sword that has been taken from his subject's back and set painfully into another vital part of his body.

"No." He growls at the king's feeble attempts at freedom, putting a step to the clawed foot of the throne to bring himself to the leader's jaw. Cranked open by the blade deeply penetrating his throat as well as the large stone chair rest behind him. If the broadsword were any thicker, his jaw will certainly snap off from the pressure. Death is careful not to contact his spine or puncture his brain stabbing the sword longways so the cutlasses shall dig between his missing canine and smelted lateral incisor snugly. A palm grips the end the sword invading the king's mouth. Effortlessly submerging it deeper underground a few inches. The king attempts a growl with his tongue cut in half as he chokes on the metal.

"The blade stays."

Death's final words linger even with the tired, agitated tone as he retreats. Leaving the undead tyrant unable to cast a spell onto the reaper bursting through the doors, he lacks focus from the grievance in his face to function. Being forced to remain as a model of equality to his fallen brethren littered about his court. To feel the same tortures that Death will not grant them for today and possibly eons to come.

* * *

A thick yellowed ribbon of bandages is undone below the balcony. At the end of the trail of old wraps is Genevieve halfway through patching the wounds about her skin. There is a significant amount of bandaging over her neck and popped eye. The blood already seeping through the loosely tethered wrapping. She is lucky enough to have time to retrieve the bag that had been taken from her. To look inside quickly and pull out the first item that looked relative to a glowing green and heart shaped with a skull capped bottle. Instead, she had retrieved the wraps and hastily tended her wounds, trying to keep her eyes off the turmoil before her. Her mind had tried it's hardest to tune out the bloodcurdling screams and cracks of bone with each shaky wraparound her eye. Attempting desperately to keep from witnessing the slaughter that may seem to have certainly been in her honor and barely keeps herself from crying harder at the thought.

She isn't flattered, her horror has engulfed any remnant of the soft feeling. To know the raw, deadly power of the Grim Reaper first hand and how quickly and acutely said power can be dispersed. And that look of fear is visible as the Reaper drops onto his feet from the jump from the balcony, the plank flooring crushes to jagged shambles at the solid impact.

Not sticking the landing, the pale being collapses to the ground on all fours. The stained red head shoves her fear to the back of thoughts to worry about later. She throws the army satchel over her shoulder and stammers to back to her feet. Even in a daze form pain and the loss of blood, she manages limping to the horseman only a few paces away.

"You don't look too good." She observes queasily, "Whats that green stuff floating around you?"

"Don't fuss over it, we're leaving." Death mumbles slowly, "That is all that should matter." Finally gaining a bit of strength, his head raises for his hooded tangerine eyes to glance at the woman he barely saved inches from the nose of his mask.

"Genevieve..." He mutters with utmost apologies as the neon green fog growing thicker about the ground. Seeing her greasy, tangled mane tied down at the top from the thick bandages about her head with a large rose of blood solidifying where her right eye should be. Her less harmed eye isn't swollen, but it's purple with a shiner just below her bottom eyelashes. Her lower lip is puffy and dug in with the king's teeth marks and cheeks skuffed with a cut on her left where Draven had silenced her. The cut's fluid mixing with her constant flowing tears for the rider she conflictingly fears and worries for at the same time.

"I'm... I'm so sorry..." He tries to put a hand to her cut cheek, but is so weak it causes him to collapse under himself from the lack of support and thuds to his side, his head landing on her right thigh on the soft muscle behind her knee. It would have startled Genevieve if she hadn't lost her motor skills.

She obliges only because she simply doesn't know what else to do, she's pinned to the ground and could not tend to his wounds if he had any. All she can do put her small hand to the now colder skin of his forehead as he looks up to her face with his head resting comfortably on her lap. She pushes his disheveled long hair back reassuringly.

"It's alright. Really." She smiles softly without a shake in her voice contrary to the tears flowing from her bruised, pink eye. "I'm still here, aren't I?" She puts her lips to the bare skin above his mask. She retreats only slightly to look at those melancholy, reddish golden eyes.

"Just rest, 'kay big guy?"

Death stays silently for a moment. Then his eyes close and face softly presses against her stomach. The smoke grows to a fog engulfs the light about them as they sink into the portal below. A portal growing from underneath pulls them down into the abyss of black. Leaving only small dark lines of green that dissipate quickly into the dust in the domain's stailened air as if they vanish from existence.


	10. Loss of Trust

The perishing sun is censored by the ash atmosphere hovering glumly over two titanic metal and bronze statues. They stand guard hooded and faceless at either side of the entrance to the City of The Dead. The statues are equipped with large swords at either sides of them with a large shield upright at their feet. As If the guardians are deemed with the purpose of protecting the impenetrable barrier of the enormous dead city.

Only age has managed to penetrate the mountain high walls. Only finding it's way through the cracks and erosion riddled about it's articulate copper foundations as well as it's face. Nonetheless, it remains powerfully stagnant since the dawn of time, fading far into the fog of the horizon as it broods both valiantly and intimidatingly over the girl awoken first and before her guard. Unable to compare the sights to any great towers of her birthplace of London, or the dominant city skylines of Hollywood, California where she passed.

But that was a short while ago and she's almost past the now tiresome thought in her easily distracted mind. Though she has nothing else to focus on, the only thing to bother her thoughts in the nothingness of the entrance is the scenery of the long bridge behind them crossing an endless desert of ash.

And the fear, the uncountable fears that cloud thicker in her mind worse than the grumbling clouds floating sickly above her. The fears of the the endless monsters, the strange new worlds, the blasted King and his jealous subjects, even Death. She looks down, the human's spine shaking due to her heaviest concern embracing her as he slept, out cold with his heavy arm draping over waist with it's hand snaked underneath the back of a ravaged sweater. His mask had never left the bare, toned skin of her stomach that he rests comfortably in his unconsciousness.

Genevieve had been knocked out as well, waking up to have fallen on her side over the horseman's other arm, but it served as no pillow and her aching neck is the product of that mistake. This woman cannot move, her one hundred and thirty-three pound weight is pinned under an arm that must be twice that. She slithers her body out of his grasp but hears a tiresome growl when doing so. The grip of his claws dig almost softly into her skin as she pulled away, nails creating four white lines that turn a soft red on Genevieve's skin. As if to be a subconscious tactic to lock the girl in his arms so he may have something to hold as he slept.

When the scuffed strawberry blonde fully pulls her leg from her sleeping partner, she feels horridly lightheaded and her eye blurs heavily upon moving her drained skull. Having been drained of nutrients, energy and blood, her mind still full of thought and bubbled over with emotions even with all the crimson missing. She is so humiliated by the king and his subjects and sickeningly happy from the vengeance of their outcomes. What consumes her the most is her horror of the man she made a pact with, yet relieved that she had someone so powerful on her side. Though, Death was the most fearsome of all in her eye.

Bloodstained, paled hands hold her cranium from the dizzying pain and trying to physically shun the thoughts of him to the back of her mind. She looks over to the army knapsack still fastened heavy to her back and shakes it off. It thumps to the ground with the sound of metal clanking strangely in the bag. She catches the noise and realizes she hasn't peered inside the whole time she's hauled it. It isn't as if she had time, she was too preoccupied with getting her eye gutted.

Drully, she first takes the rubber canteen, turns the black rubber nozzle, and chugs as she pulls the largest zipper about the bag. A dewy, soft smile shows on her lips as she finds more bandages, a small bag full of glit, bowie knives, a first aid kit, body wash, and a gun.

Pulling the handle carefully from the pack, her eyes widen, her smile fades and the bottle falls. For her fear engulfs her once again as she threw the shot gun across the floor with a shriek.

This was no ordinary shot gun, being none other than the twelve gauge that belonged to the man that took her. The woman knows it was his, she's too familiar with the gun to not know. So having been made to be so familiar that she remembers the model, it's uses for hunting, she even knows the serial number engraved onto the side as well as her heavy heart. Her face warps slightly from the self disgust but she swallows her tears before one would dare to depart from her lashes. That old bastard haunts her too much to give him anymore, even in death.

Facing her frights, she gets back on her feet with some difficulty, teetering over from loosing balance. Resuming her standing, she limps over and retrieves the gun with the past as dark as hers. Scriptures glowing orange at the side of the barrel to her touch.

"Who's sick joke is this?" She barks in her thoughts, strangling the gun that plagues her dreams. "That fucking goat!" The flustering soul's eye reopens and her anger is ripped from her face by a sudden stroke of logic. Attempting to put together part of a thousand piece puzzle with the mere few she had in her mind. "B-but he would have sold it all if he knew what was in there!"

"SHIT!" She hisses aloud out of hopeless confusion. This is no coincidence, she knows that. She has barely known of the new worlds and already there is someone, or something, torturing her silently with every step.

The life force left in Genevieve's barely ticking core drops the thought. Bringing a more current one into play in her actions.

For what if the deal was done, the less vulnerable woman thought, what would she mean to him? What if she angered him became on the receiving end of that blade?

She ponders on this for a great amount of time as she ran her dirtied palms over the scriptures along the shotgun's barrel, limping to the scythe barer and plopping herself in front of the mask. If the deal was done and he had no more use for her after she gives up the amulet set about her chest. Would he be rid of her and never utter a word to her again. Would they part in good spirits and sorrows like losing an old friend. Not possible, she thought, they don't care for each other enough to have such memorable moments.

What if the deal was done and she is no longer of any use? Would he kill her?

Genevieve tried to tune out such a possible thought as she began to clench the barrel with much more stress. But the theory is so loud, so possible given that Death, the destroyer of life on Earth, could simply kill off one more without a second thought. She stared intently at the mask leaning on it's side as his head leans on his forearm. Death's eyes remaining dormant with discomfort creasing his brows as his psyche yearns for his pillow of soft skin and flesh.

As unsure as she is about the subject, she knew one thing was certain.

Genevieve has a gun. And her greatest worry is before her. Asleep. Vulnerable. Blissfully ignorant to the girls thought and actions at hand.

The nozzle of the gun raises between two dormant amber spheres with the rusting metal barely shy of grazing the pale rider's barren nose. The girl begins to perspire enough to lubricate her shaking forefinger on the trigger, making it slippery and more difficult to hold. Recalling all the harsh words he spat at her. Being pushed into the front lines and dangled in front of monsters like a little chew toy to a pack of wolves. Only to pull her back at the final second before the creatures snapped their mighty teeth on her delicate bones. Recalling the Eternal Throne, the tearing of olden flesh and fracturing bones that make themselves known again and again that makes her finger tremble and ache to pull the trigger.

Her arching eye relaxes and fades to her regular softening one. Tears shape under her quivering pupil. Genevieve cannot just run, she can barely stand from the haziness and pain. Even if she were healthy, there's no where to go or hide, she would run aimlessly for miles through the desert. It would have been an absolutely hopeless effort. The forefinger slightly recedes form the slick metal. At the verge of changing it's decision to kill for it's first time.

Then in an instant, a loud caw along with long talons crash into Genevieve's chest. She and the gun fall backward but the trigger is pulled. Unleashing blast loud enough to tremor the desert ash for miles. The scattergun shoots at the large eastern metal guardian's face. A bright and fiery explosion of shrapnel and soot sprouts the ancient sculpture. Rubble crashes down by the tons from the balloons of pulverized ancient rock. Exploding to smaller debris to the ground not far from the now standing and highly alarmed Grim Reaper.

"What in damnation was that!?" He thunders at the girl shoving off his pet crow. She says nothing as she holds the steaming red hot gun in her lap as Dust retreats to the skies once again. Shame washes over her, her forefinger finally leaves the slippery trigger. She lowers her head with face blank of emotion. Death rips the killing machine from the being's lifeless hands and she puts no fight to have it back.

"You did that, did you not?" The horseman interrogates gravely, the human girl retorts in silence and shame. His impatience quadruples."You will be wise to answer me!"

His shouting does nothing to pull her from her state. Doing nothing but stare at the ground, numb to her pain and suffering as well as anything the eldest Nephilim could deal out himself. Before he could call out again, a recalled servant's voice interferes.

"I fear that I may have come at a bad time?" Death turns to the well known, level headed voice that belongs to none other than the Chancellor. The regal corpse rises from a serpent hole in the ground.

Calming down slightly, the horseman answers spitefully, "I guess in a case considering such artwork has been destroyed to shambles. As well as your King and your subjects."

"It is of no trouble, horseman. My King has returned from more extensive tortures." The deathly servant grins, "As for the guard, more and more die every day. It will not be long until those positions are filled. But let us move on to more important business. What have you learned from the lord of Bones?"

"I suppose he lives up to his name, if not his bargains." Death states with a slight shrug of his shoulders.

"The Dead King has granted you passage to the City of the Dead."

"Who must I seek in the City of The Dead?" Death questions forwardly, sparking a grave chuckle from under the Chancellor's hood. He slowly wags a long and bony finger playfully in the mask's direction.

"There is no fun in simply telling you."

"Answer my question, scarecrow!" The masked Nephilim forces. It does nothing to intimidate, only entertaining the ghoul further. "What will I find in the City of The Dead, besides more corpses."

"Something more precious than sinew and bone. _Souls_, Rider. From every kingdom under a dying a sun. Including the girl's kingdom of Eden." Noticing that he had captured the girl's attention from the corner of his dark eyes. He tells more of what he knows. "In the city, their past lives are cleansed, that they may pass through the well and be reborn. Many souls do survive this purification. Some are driven **mad.** And a few even manage to escape their bonds. Which is how I come across the subject of your small muse. My king may not know of her origins, but I hold some information you may deem. . . worthy."

"Then I intend you speak not in riddles and be forward with what you know. Before I force open your mouth to speak much like I've done to your beloved King." The Chancellor recedes his neck with a small and snooty huff. Shrouding his worry to suffer a similar fate as the rest on board. So he complies.

"The girl is neither of the living _or_ the dead." Death raises a brow as Genevieve's face shifts upwards from blank to a wide eyed, confused state. "Having been plucked from a pool of billions at just the right moment. At the point of being fully cleansed of the impurities of sin done unto her being as well as achieving her mind to remain perfectly intact. A near impossible task, but can be done. But only by one with great, expendable power." The Chancellor turns his brittle head to the human girl and his voice shifts as well, turning more conniving, "It seems that this worthless child of man has a guardian angel so to speak. And a powerful one at that. More powerful than you pale rider."

"What do you know of the Amulet? Why has the Lord of Bones sought for it?"

"That an answer to seek elsewhere, Death." He shakes his head underneath his large cult-like shroud. "Though heed my words, it is said that the Sun Amulet is bound to it's selected entirely, if she falls to a more gravely state, the power bound in it will cease to exist." The Chancellor warns with an emaciated finger pointed to the amulet about it's wearer. "I only say what I know to assure that you tread carefully, outcast. My Lord may seek your power again."

Genevieve glares for a moment. She breaks her silence as she spits to the to the ghoul that gave the order to drop her from the balcony.

"Like all of Creation, you will return to our domain, and we _will_ remember you." The Chancellor's words fail to linger to their reciever as a serpent hole opens underneath the ghostly servant and he descends. Leaving as quickly as he came.

As the girl wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, she hears Death sigh but cannot bear to look at him. Her eye is only brought to him when she hears the demonic whinny from Despair.

"Get on the horse." The rider orders calmly and holds out his hand, his order emotionless of any asking or plea. It doesn't matter if it's an order or a plead. She complies takes the gauntlet in her hand and she boosts onto the black metal saddle. Despair begins to gallop, his hooves kicking up ash and green smoke in it's trail.

A few minutes into the ride, Genevieve begins to speak. "Death, I'm so sorry. About the gun I was-"

"I know."

"Huh?"

"I know you tried to kill me. But I cannot simply kill you for it. Not with the new information we've acquired. So I'm sending you away. So that I can focus on redeeming my brother and keep you out of trouble. You cannot be trusted with your life as well as mine."

". . . I understand." She agrees, looking down in sorrow. Only Despair's trots through the powder and Dust's periodic caws above are all that can be heard in their mutual silence. Genevieve's couldn't think of anything to say. She cannot be upset with him for loosing his trust. What she had nearly done is unforgivable that she herself cannot get over.

"'Ki ask where we're goin?" She asks shyly, only passing a look to the Nephilim rider by the corner of her good eye. His look never breaking with the horizon of ash and expiration.

"Someplace safer." Death states dryly. "But twice as damned."

* * *

The two days travel seems to be an intimidating amount for the two souls. There's no vials everywhere they looked. In crates, enemies, they are no where to be found and Genevieve is getting weaker by the hour.

The two are forced to stop as the injured one has to change her bandages for a third time. They set up camp near a cliff side. It is still gloomy in the skies, but the shadowy plains have more signs of life stretching thin with dying grass and flowers. Lifeless skeletons were still found in the ash dunes and dying meadows, but at least the yellowing forgery is a somewhat nicer change of scenery.

Genevieve sits on a patch of dead wheat grass with her aching back against one of the many towering rocks that scattered across the hills. She undresses her wound as Death takes the olden third kingdom pack off of Despair's saddle. Behind his back, he hears the girl mumble something under her breath due to weakness and loss of focus. It aggravates the horseman slightly.

"I do enjoy when you're silent, but don't mumble like you suppose that I can hear you." He orders, tossing the bag at the rock she leans on, not paying her a glance.

"_I asked,"_ She stresses slightly louder, but her voice is still hoarse and sickly, "If you would be so kind. 'Need your medical expertise." Death sighs, turns and only looks at the roll of clean bandages in the injured's scuffed hand. He kneels in front of her, taking the roll and finally dares himself looks up to her face.

The last bandage had fallen, revealing the purplish-black skin underneath with light-green at the outskirts of the wound. The line from her forehead to her cheek has scabbed auburn, but the bleeding in her socket barely stops. The sack of a once beautiful navy eye is now deflated and sullied beyond the repair of human medicine. Both her iris and pupil has been stolen of it's once illustrious hue, becoming an infected yellowish blue with a gaping crimson crevice down the middle.

Death isn't disgusted, he has inflicted far worse wounds in his days. Alternatively, it makes his anger mix with the guilt forming in his features. Furrowing his brows and eyes lower in flare. He looks away to pick up the clean bandages but to also avoid a look from the unbroken eye that betrayed him, yet he feels to have done the same. Death's eyes return only when a small hand touches his cheek that points away and pulls him back to her small and strangely forgiving smile.

"I know you can't stand me right now." Genevieve realizes. Death makes as small hum in agreement. Genevieve adds gingerly, "I entirely understand that. But I don't hate you. And I don't blame you for what happened on that ship." The wrinkles around Death's eyes smoothen as he relaxes, he begins wrapping Genevieve's ruptured eye. "You saved me. So many times and you have no idea how grateful I am for all you've done. It's just that you. . . You freak me out." Her voice is getting slower.

"'I freak you out.'" He scoffs bitterly as he tightens the knot above her right cowlick. "An explanatory reason to kill."

"Look." She pushes softly, doesn't have much time to say what she must. "You don't have to forgive me. . . But I forgive you. And I'm. . ." Genevieve's voice sounds off, her life is fading and Death knows it as her hand drops like dead weight to the ash ridden tall grass.

"Mortal," He warns halfway to the verge of his anxiety, "Don't you dare go under on me."

"I'm going to make this up you . . ." Her head bobs forward as her body instantly goes numb. "Somehow." She slurs.

Her sight goes black and she barely hears Death growl a curse and feels cold hands jerk her from the ground. She then feels nothing, only to fade down as she had done before on the eve of the Apocalypse and the day of her demise.

* * *

**_Yeah, bit of a slower chapter, I know. But entirely necessary._**

**_Thank you for the feedback, it's all been excruciatingly sweet :)_**


	11. The Humble Merchant

**_Hey guys... So my lateness... See what happened was._**

**_My computer crashed and I was actually a couple chapters ahead and *Bloop* Three weeks of my life vanishes into thin air._**

**_Plus I has 2 jobs and school. So I'm not going to be posting as frequently as before. But This fic is not going to stop. "I shall see it to the very end." lol Death. _****_Anyways,_**

**_ONTO LE STORY!_**

* * *

"Her wounds have healed." Genevieve slowly and hazily squints open her eyes to a dark and raspy voice in her right ear. It doesn't sound old, just vulgar and sickly, even perverse. Catching a blur of a familiar pale skinned rider. His stance is cautious with his back to the disoriented woman. The orange glow of the shotgun that nearly murdered him is strapped loosely to his side closer to her. He appears to be speaking to a beast floating upright with a foggy blue hue of smoke about it. She believes it's another ghoul and prepares to begin kicking and throwing punches. But before she could raise a wrist, she realizes the difference in tinge this creature resonated. His height is different as well, having three feet over the horseman whom she already calls a giant. The devil floats legless with two bandaged meaty wings stilly keeping him afloat. Or at least that is what she trusts it to be, she wouldn't be surprised if the Grim Reaper had close ties with Lucifer. As they turn to her, she closes her eyes and feigns unconsciousness. She hears the voice again as the oversized imp leans in. "I believe that I have held my end of the bargain. And you do hold two rather expensive gems that would suffice perfectly." The monster's horns lean farther in, their jagged tips almost touching her forehead. At the contact of icy gold casing his fingers, she snaps.

"Step off you ugly creep!" Genevieve cracks awake. Raising a large boot to the merchant's face. Rocketing her foot into his sharp and boney cheekbone. The monster retreats backward with a hiss and holds his face in his large hands overlapping with expensive rings. She moves quickly, swiping her shotgun from Death's holster and at the hunching demon in the next. Death lunges for her, but misses by the tiniest hair to her swift dodge. The demon raises his head to the dark stare of an enchanted twelve gauge pointed between his glowing green eyes.

"Don't you dare fucking touch me again, you hear me!?" Genevieve barks with fearsome eyes beaming down the barrel to the demon on the other end.

Strangely, he holds his grin amid a face that read, "This will work in my favor." All over his sunken in, noseless, dead lilac colored face.

"Genevieve, no!" Death defends, "Vulgrim is an ally!" Genevieve reluctantly pulls back the gun, with the sourest of scowls as she lowers it to her side. Vulgrim returns his stance from the impact. His ripped kilt advertising many bottles, emblems and jewelry clinks as he moves. Gliding over to a glowing blue portal that match the intertwining smoke at his invisible feet.

"Well," Vulgrim chirps to the rider as he examines the third kingdom spawn. "It seems that humans of the third kingdom have more… robust introductions. How is your eye?" Genevieve chuffs at the comment but feels her eye. Remarkably, it works perfectly as before, but not as perfectly intact. She felt along slit of a scar that runs from above her eyebrow to the middle of her cheek.

"But I have kept my word of reviving her, horseman." He holds his hand bejeweled with rare rings with colorful sheening gems unlike any rocks seen by human kind residing fashionably about his clawed hands. "My payment."

Death throws the sky colored vial carelessly a few feet and into the demons palms. He catches it with a clank of the contact with the expensive metals and cups it warmly, cradling the vial as if it were the most precious thing in all the worlds of creation combined. Hastily, he pops off the cap and thousands of airless screams fill the musty cavern air, making Vulgrim's sinful chuckle grow louder and maniacal. His head falls backward as his jaw hangs low, sucking the vial's contents like an overpowered vacuum. Genevieve's organs churn heatedly inside her as she watches the flourish of tortured souls terminate within a single wheeze. She clenches her gun tightly at the handle and her trigger happy forefinger aches to tug the trigger in his direction.

Though, her fiery explosive isn't raised to the demon's face, a gauntlet covers Genevieve's tensing hand before she could. Holding it as it wrapped about the large barrel. Genevieve brought her look upward to the horseman looking to the gun. There is a solemn look in his eyes and Genevieve read it like an open book.

"You don't have to." He mumbles. Stippled loose hands slip from the barrel by formidable steel gantlets tugging it slowly. "I will not allow you to stain your hands of such unworthy blood."

"My hands have always been stained Death," Genevieve says honestly, taking the gun back into her hands and Death's claws detach. "And their only gonna get worse."

The last wailing soul is sucked into Vulgrim's esophagus. Even after the delicious meal of life that he consumed, the demon merchant scowls. He looks at the empty bottle intently as he turns it over shakes for possible remaining souls. "You're short." Vulgrim growls.

"Four thousand souls were in that phial, demon." Death scorns, "That was the price we agreed on as I recall." Genevieve gulps, thinking of how much life it cost to keep her own.

"Four thousand was for _one_ vial, and to pull that human from her deathly state took. . . "Vulgrim guides his claws near the stone to a pile of broken glass and metal braces of once dozens of potions. Death had ran through all of them to desperately keep his protected alive. "Let us just agree that you went through an expensive lot. Plus with the damages due to the human's aggressiveness," Vulgrim's grin returns, lightly holding his green and purple splotch blooming on his pointed cheekbone with a couple of fingers. "I intend to collect double."

The Reaper swore in the sound of a gravely hiss, thinking through what he could possibly sell to him to pay his debt. He could have gone through tens of dozens of vials, which mean he could be hundreds of thousands of souls in debt. And that price has doubled from the Genevieve's defense. He has glit, but a merchant such as Vulgrim has no use for such flavorless currency. He doesn't dare to become indebted to a being denied from even the vilest pits of hell.

"But I could erase your crippling debt, rider. On one condition of course." Death's eyes rise to the demon. His smiling teeth illuminated with the clouded blue gas of the portal beneath him. "Your financial uncertainties will be forgotten. I only ask for a mere piece of the girl's essence. A survivable payment." He assures. He leaves his place upon the portal and his body swims through the air to Genevieve with her face contorted with the grimmest look her fair face could perform. "Think of all of the souls you are saving from my hands," Vulgrim persuades skillfully. "Hundreds of thousands of souls can be saved from tyranny. For only the price of just _one_." The human's dirty look fades much to the merchant's liking as he stresses his final word.

"If you plan on collecting the girl's soul, you are dreadfully mistaken." Death disagrees dryly, "She isn't up for trade."

"Actually. . ." Genevieve shrugs sheepishly. "I could be." The Nephillim and the merchant gape at the woman in question, then at each other. Their looks differentiating with the demon's grin pinning high with a green splotch glowing painfully below his eye.

"Then it is settled!" The demon merchant announces happily, floating whimsically about the air to Genevieve's side.

"I shall not grant consent to this!" The grim reaper objects with a boom. Standing between the two as a barrier from the demon. "Her soul is hers to keep!"

"It's my fault you're in this mess," Genevieve says to the pale rider. Her voice growing slightly nervous as Vulgrim forges closer. "It's only fair I get you out of it."

"She has spoken, Rider. And her mouth is not your own to govern. Come, young one." Vulgrim holds out his golden knuckled claws welcomingly, as if holding it would essentially make her feel comfortable. "This will be painless act of kindness, I assure you." Genevieve gawks at the hand momentarily and then takes the hand in hers without question. The merchant snickers perversely under his breath and tugs her moderately to the serpent hole.

"Where do you believe you're going?" Death growls, withdrawing his scythes halfway but remaining at the holsters.

"Ah- _ah!_" Vulgrim whistles, holding a clawed forefinger to the indebted warrior. "No following, this is a matter of business that should be achieved between only us." He sneers to the girl more silent than she's ever been, unfazed by his scorn. "I don't want her to back out last second with the help of your scythes. But do not worry your comely little head..." They continue to the portal, passing Death who brings himself alongside her to the portal.

"Genevieve, you don't have to do this," Death argues. "You will only know regret if you barter with this blood drawing vermin. Your soul isn't worth that."

"Oh, Horseman." Vulgrim coos into their conversation holding his bruised cheek in his free palm. "I would never have known you were capable of such generous vocabulary."

"If this gets your forgiveness back," Genevieve says with her back to the horseman as her feet phases over the bluish-white spirals of smoke with each step to the platform. "Then it will be."

With that expressed, Death ceases his following and pulls back from persuading her any further. Reluctantly allowing the two to reach the mouth of the serpent hole. The light flashes with a flourish of blue that consumes them. Genevieve turns her head and looks the rider in the eyes for the first time since the Eternal Throne. The scar down her face creases as her eyes smile at him and her lips softly follow. Remembering the same drooping eyes in that look that he bears now. The light wraps loosely about her torso that dissipate in the transport. Reaching her face, her grin disappears into this air as she leaves to do business with the black merchant.

". . . I will return her shortly." Vulgrim's last words dissipate as the two disappear in the musty cavern air. The swirls of light disappear entirely. Leaving Death alone with the only the sounds of Vulgrim's chimes twinkling through the moaning wind. Death leans on the slab of rock that held Genevieve arisen with his arms folded. Amber eyes never leaving the now lightless pedestal of a dormant serpent hole. Alone to beseech to a woman he had sworn to protect for her payload. But now believes the care has slightly shifted for her soul.

"Be safe, young mortal."

* * *

The merchant swims in circles about the girl in the center. Standing stoically on a broken bridge hovering glumly over an endless abyss of night. Circling again and again about her. Sensual oohs and ahhs whisper to her skin with gazes similar to a starving man gazing at a three course meal.

"You are simply delicious, my dear." The merchant whispers from behind her ear. "I can smell it you know, your soul." His plated fingers claw softly across her back as he examines her. "I can see it through those crystal eyes of yours, I can smell it, how it's bled unto your clothes and sweat through your brow." His voice gets even closer, vibrating off the small of her neck. "And I can feel it with every breath that you breathe. It is all simply. . ." He takes a large whiff of her hair heavy enough to fill his lungs the scent of blood, sweat, and tears that have dried unto her skin.

". . ._ Intoxicating_." He sighs.

"J-just get it over with already!" Genevieve blurts out irritably high enough to echo the abyss.

"Nervous?" Vulgrim chuckles darkly, leaving her neck and floats facing her. "Don't be." His long hands clench her arms, binding them to her sides. His mouth gapes open and his breath pulls inward. Genevieve feels lightheaded as her breath transfers brutally to become his. Then something shines white and neon gold between them in the brightest of pure white and yellow. Flying by the light years from Genevieve's throat and snuffs out like frozen darkness consuming a lively fire.

Vulgrim's head jolts backward almost violently at the soul parchment's impact and holds himself there. Exhaling in a guttural tone as he savors the light, sweet and orgasmic flavor of life layering his tongue. His claws loosen as he savors the sugared aftertaste, letting Genevieve to crumble to the floor as he tries to recollect himself.

"What… What did you do to me?" Genevieve instigates tiresomely as she barely raised her head from the glowing blue insignias that cover the floor.

"You have given me a taste of your soul, thus forming us into a pact. When you meet your quite timely demise, your soul will return for me to devour. So travel carelessly my dear, I impatiently await your life to return to me so I may take you whole." He clenches his fist. Genevieve's amulet brightens and smolders hot but unlike any burning anger that fumes from Genevieves face.

"S-son of a bitch!" Genevieve jumps to her feet pulls out her shotgun, and aims the gun it into the demon's face. She pulls the trigger and experiences no kickback at the blast bright enough to be a furious sun in the black abyss. Vulgrim slides through the air and dodges the explosive round. Only taking a jug on his belt that explodes from the small, fiery shrapnel. The shot vaporizing a levitating slab of stone who's contents fall to the night below. Genevieve cocks the gun but Vulgrim grabs her before she could aim again. He twists her arm to her back and she trills sharply. Her voice flickers to a quiet growl and grits her teeth.

"You said nothing about no pact you conniving blue sack of shit!"She interrupts herself with a scream as Vulgrim presses her arm in near it's breaking point. "I'll break that soul sucking mouth of yours and bury you so no one can hear you I swear on it!"

"Oh please hinder your kindness, my love." Vulgrim twists her from the stone and throws her hard to the crumbling bridge. Emaciated faces spiral into the air from the cracked vial and pass Vulgrim's jagged smile. "But I am only a humble merchant."

* * *

Death still waits patiently in the cave having moved not one muscle. The ribbons of blue light resume on the serpent hole in the shape of the demon and the human at his side. When the portal returns them entirely, Genevieve stomps down the steps and past the Reaper.

"The debt has been paid, Rider." The demon announces smugly. "And quite the transaction it was."

"Then our business is done." Death rudely concludes.

Death watches the girl walking towards him, her face furious, humiliated even. "Genevieve are you…"

"You heard him, Skullface." Genevieve spits walking past Death. Her voice humbles as she leaves the room of the long cave. "Let's get out of this shithole." She disappears into the hole to the small light of the exit far down the hall. Death agrees silently and follows her. He stops when he feels cold metal claws touch his forearm.

"Before you go, pale rider, a word?" Vulgrim beseeches. Reluctantly, Death stops his following.

"What is it this time?" Death spits, Vulgrim's bare teeth smirk behind the rider as he further clenches the rider's shoulder. Death's eyes flare as his eyebrows scrunch.

" I must commend you for such a valiant child of man you hold under your wing." Vulgrim compliments strangely. Death's eyes narrow irritably.

"I know." Death retorts slow and with gravel.

"And you must know that I have never tasted a soul of such caliber." Vulgrim purrs. Furthering Death's heat boiling in his fists at his sides. Vulgrim pushes further, "I can still taste her on my tongue. Such light, sinlessness, _virginity…_ You simply must have a try her before anyone else does." Death shoves off Vulgrim's plated hand with a furious growl.

"Revolting bastard." He stomps to the exit of the cave. It is far too silent there, hearing the dark chuckles even at the brightening outside of the cave.

The long cove finally ended. Death never cared for warm weather, but feeling a warmth other than fresh blood or a monster's fiery breath heating his skin did in some slight comfort. The welcoming sun was bright in this world, burning his enchanted corneas slightly as they sharpened. Catching Genevieve sitting at the end of the Cliffside of the steep green mountain that Vulgrim's lair resided. With her feet dangling from the edge, she stared into the forest. Thick, prospering trees ranging from wide, tangling baobab trees from reddening cherry blossoms and evergreens. Creating eye catching array of greens, orange and reds that shroud the green soil below them. She's mesmerized by the endless miles and mountains of forest occasionally specked with ancient ruins. Though, no towers scratched the atmosphere unlike the tree in the center of it all. Reaching epically into space and glowed a soft cyan between its leaves. Birds great and small chirping out of unison and flutter about the lightly clouded sky turned a bluish pink by the sunrise. It has been ages since she's seen a clear sky. It did her heart well to finally see another.

"It's beautiful." The starry eyed red head marvels rubbing her new scar. Death utters a small hum in agreement as he summons his dead steed into the new world. Genevieve's eyes squint at the distant stone structures in the horizon withered with its mouth agape. It appears to be in shambles, but still in the shape of a bearded man's face. She finds it scary yet slightly humorous at the same time, but she hides either emotion about her face either way as a saddened look takes hold.

"This isn't Earth, isn't it?" She frowns, looking to the hundred foot drop below her. Death stops himself mid climb upon Despair's saddle.

"The Forgelands." Death answers. "We're journeying to Tri-Stone. Where you will reside for the time being."

"… So you still don't trust me, right." Genevieve mumbles sheepishly, turning her gaze to the bottom of the cliff.

"I pulled you from the lowliest of dungeons and monsters." Death says sternly, but not with anger as he walks to her side, the toes under his boots hanging off the cliff. Genevieve winces slightly at the recall and her hands and clenches her chaps tighter at her knees. "Only to bring you someplace safe. Are you saying you're not grateful for that?" Death raises an eyebrow down her direction.

"Of course I am." Genevieve whiningly disagrees.

Death crouches with a plated knee to the grassy mountain ground. He sighs, "The three worlds are in chaos, Genevieve. You have only awoken from that dungeon three earth days ago. You are not ready to see let alone fight in what has become the norm. At least not yet." Genevieve huffs at his truth.

"As long as these 'allies' over there aren't like the ones I've met already."

"Makers are neutral enough." Death shrugs. "Considering their great size and temper. But this time I can promise that you will be in good hands. I will not allow you to be taken advantage of again."

Genevieve gulps. If only he knew that she has. She wants to tell him so badly of what happened. She knew that dealing with this dastardly demon was wrong, sinful and regretful. To tell him that he made a pact with a demon that she will never be able to let herself out of. But a hand softly pulls her chin up to the pale mask. An assurance lulls her shoulders and keeps her eyes from drooping further.

"When I find you safe passage to the White City, is when I will return. And you will suffer no more."

* * *

_**I'm excited for writing the next chapters for you guys! AAAH! Makers!**_

_**~lexi**_


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